JULIET 

WILBOR. 

TOMPKINS 


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EVER  AFTER 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

PLEASURES  AND  PALACES 
MOTHERS  AND  FATHERS 
OPEN  HOUSES 
THE  TOP  OF  THE  MORNING 
DOCTOR  ELLEN 


I  thought  I  was  vrilling  to  pay  the  price"' 


EVER   AFTER 


BY 

JULIET  WILBOR  TOMPKINS 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLED  AY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1913 


Copyright,  1913,  by 

DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE    &   COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages 

including  the  Scandinavian 


EVER  AFTER 


2229457 


CHAPTER  ONE 

Candace  Ware  stood  on  the  veranda  enjoying 
the  sense  of  finished  work.  It  was  the  first  morning 
in  months  that  had  given  her  leisure  to  stand  in  the 
sun  with  her  arms  folded,  and  all  her  square,  strong 
figure,  relaxed  against  a  pillar,  showed  her  satis- 
faction in  the  moment.  Candace's  slow,  close- 
lipped  smile  curled  up  at  the  corners,  and  her  little 
brown  eyes  took  the  same  curl  when  she  was  pleased, 
giving  the  hardy,  boyish  face  an  impersonal  sort  of 
charm,  a  promise  of  good  fellowship  and  of  a  massive, 
almost  an  immoral,  tolerance.  But  for  this  mellow 
quality,  she  showed  the  undated  youthfulness  of 
mind  and  body  that  the  modern  woman  of  forty  has 
so  suddenly  and  remarkably  acquired.  Candace's 
mother,  at  her  age,  had  worn  caps  and  considered 
it  more  graceful  and  fitting  not  to  dress  in  the  im- 
mediate fashion.  Her  daughter,  trimly  shirt waisted, 
with  three  good  inches  of  daylight  above  her  man- 
nish Oxfords,  could  still  be  seriously  referred  to  as 
a  girl. 

The  old  farmhouse  stood  on  a  great,  rounded 
knob  of  land  that  thrust  it  well  up  into  a  sky  of 

3 


4  EVER  AFTER 

noble  breadth.  It  was  sky  that  one  saw  there  before 
anything  else,  vasty  deeps  of  cloud-billowed  sky,  an 
azure  immensity  that  overwhelmed  the  little  world 
of  farms  and  woods,  reducing  it  to  a  pebble  lying 
under  a  mighty  palm.  Clear  green  meadow  rolled 
away  from  the  house  indefinitely  in  front,  but  on  the 
sides  and  back  it  broke  against  jutting  capes  and 
islands  of  compact  woodland.  Well  down  the 
slopes,  four  pine  shacks,  rough  but  charming,  each 
with  a  high  window  to  the  north  to  explain  its  call- 
ing, hid  from  one  another  behind  shoulders  and 
curves  of  hill :  to  the  east,  where  the  tangled  sumach 
merged  into  the  woods,  another  roof  might  be  made 
out,  and  from  the  deeper  growth  to  the  west  came 
the  faint  notes  of  a  piano,  implying  a  sixth  cabin. 
In  this  hidden  retreat  a  theme  was  being  tried,  over 
and  over,  with  minute  variations.  Presently  the 
experimenting  fingers  found  what  they  wanted,  and 
the  strain,  after  many  repetitions,  rippled  into  joy- 
ous certainty  and  ended  in  a  triumphant  chord. 
A  few  moments  later  a  young  man  came  out  into  the 
open.  Candace's  smile  deepened  as  she  watched  his 
approach.  Dana  Malone,  like  his  cabin,  was  part  of 
her  work. 

There  were  broad  streaks  of  gray  in  his  heavy 
black  hair:  his  eyes,  deep  set  and  darkly  earnest, 
seemed  to  have  looked  on  many  things,  and  the 
irregular,  cleft  chin  had  the  thrust  of  one  who  had 


EVER  AFTER  5 

needed  all  his  determination;  and  yet  he  was  a  boy. 
Some  magic  preservative  —  the  West  in  his  blood,  or 
the  streak  of  genius  —  had  kept  his  spirit  at  nineteen 
while  his  years  were  at  twenty-nine.  He  carried 
an  air  of  unsnubbed  good  will,  suggestive  of  frank, 
new  civilizations,  and  his  speech  came  tumbling  out 
on  a  note  of  excited  discovery  the  moment  it  could 
be  heard. 

"You  can  always  do  it  if  you  want  to!"  he  de- 
clared. "It's  only  a  matter  of  wanting  to  enough 
and  sitting.  I  tell  you,  Candy,  if  you  sit  faithfully, 
you  can  do  anything  on  earth."  He  dropped  down 
on  the  step  with  a  slight  gasp  for  breath. 

"I've  got  a  pupil  who  has  been  sitting  for  thirty 
years,  and  she  can't  paint  yet,"  said  Candace. 

"Oh,  well,  if  she  hasn't  got  it  in  her  —  that's 
different.  But  if  it's  there,  I  mean.  This  going 
round  waiting  for  it  to  come  to  you  is  all  nonsense. 
You  must  sit  it  out.  That's  the  way  you  train  it  to 
come,  by  jinks!  It's  the  way  I  do,  anyway."  He 
looked  off  over  the  rolling  land,  then  stretched  his 
long  arms  above  his  head.  "I'm  so  happy,  I'm  so 
happy,"  he  chanted. 

She  smiled  her  understanding.  "Life  hasn't 
spoiled  us  very  much,  has  it?"  she  observed. 

He  answered  with  an  emphatic,  "Not  so  that  you 
would  notice  it;"  then  reconsidered.  "I  don't  know. 
I've  got  a  good  deal." 


6  EVER  AFTER 

"Inside  you,"  she  assented.  "I  believe  I  am 
coming  to  the  age  when  I  like  a  little  something 
outside,  myself." 

Again  he  burst  into  song,  chanting  on  a  high  key: 
"I  have  escaped  the  subway,  I  am  done  with  the 
elevated,  I  have  hills  and  fields  and  a  great  sky  over 
all,  and  a  pi-a-no  —  Praised  by  Thy  Name!" 
The  solemn  invocation  was  followed  by  a  shout,  evi- 
dently a  necessity  to  his  dangerously  expanded  heart. 

"You're  a  queer  child,  Dana."  She  was  looking 
down  at  him  with  never-ending  amusement  at  the 
contrast  between  his  simple,  boyish  personality  and 
the  delicate  subtlety  of  his  music.  "I  don't  under- 
stand your  talent;  I  am  not  sure  you  have  a  right 
to  it." 

"It's  California,"  he  explained  gravely.  "She 
puts  a  gift  into  your  cradle  as  a  matter  of  course — 
lovely,  big,  brown  thing!"  His  rugged  face  turned 
hungrily  toward  the  west.  "Oh,  I'm  homesick; 
I  want  to  go  back  —  don't  you?" 

" Calif ornians  are  always  homesick;"  her  tone  was 
cheerfully  practical.  "I  want  to  make  this  school  a 
success  now.    The  first  pupil  comes  this  afternoon." 

"Can  she  paint?"  without  much  interest. 

Candace  considered.  "If  she  weren't  ten  genera- 
tions or  so  of  straight  New  England  she  might;  she 
has  talent  of  a  sort  —  she  sees.  But  she  can't  let  go. 
She's  too  careful,  some  way,  ever  to  get  very  far." 


EVER  AFTER  7 

"But  what  will  the  poor  girl  do?"  he  asked  wor- 
riedly.    She  laughed  at  him. 

"Lucy  Cuyler  won't  starve,"  she  said  drily. 
"She  isn't  entirely  dependent  on  her  painting." 

"That's  so:  people  here  do  have  incomes,"  he 
admitted.  "I'm  always  forgetting  it.  No  one  at 
home  ever  seemed  to  have  a  cent  —  except  the  mil- 
lionaires, of  course." 

"But  they  all  had  had  it  twenty  years  before," 
she  reminded  him.  "It  is  our  fine,  free-handed, 
damn-the-expense  attitude  that  has  done  for  us,  my 
boy.     A  little  New  England  carefulness " 

"  W'f ! "  he  burst  in.  "Not  much.  Money  mean- 
ness is  the  ugliest  sin  on  earth." 

"Don't  you  find  penury  rather  ugly,  too?" 

Dana  ignored  that.  "I've  seen  fellows  who 
parted  with  a  dollar  as  they  would  with  a  tooth,"  he 
declaimed.  "Fellows  who  always  let  the  other  per- 
son pay,  don't  you  know?  and  who  lie  awake  nights 
if  they  think  they  have  been  overcharged  ten  cents. 
I  am  poor  enough,  God  knows,  but  I  would  chuck 
fifty  dollars  in  the  gutter  before  I'd  haggle  over  it!" 

"You  are  a  survival,  Dana,"  she  derided  him. 
"You  belong  to  the  days  when  they  threw  down  a 
bag  of  gold  dust  to  pay  for  a  drink,  and  no  gentleman 
would  stoop  to  take  change." 

"Well,  that  is  better  than  counting  your  nickels. 
I  tell  you,  Candy,  money  meanness  is  a  big,  black 


8  EVER  AFTER 

sin.  It  can  make  people  do  more  cruel,  ugly  things 
than  any  vice  I  know." 

"Oh,  nonsense.  I  could  show  you  delightful 
people  who  will  give  anything  except  money.  It's 
an  idiosyncrasy,  not  a  vice." 

His  headshake  was  violent.  "Don't  go  back  on 
your  Western  blood,  Candy." 

"One  starts  out  like  that,"  she  admitted;  "but 
—  I  don't  know.     Money's  money." 

"Then  why  do  you  spend  a  large  part  of  yours  on 
other  people?" 

She  laughed.  "Bad  habit.  I  can't  seem  to  be- 
lieve my  own  experience."     Dana  frowned. 

"What's  the  sense  of  always  talking  like  a  pirate 
when  you  always  act  like  a  guardian  angel?  It 
doesn't  fool  any  one." 

"Then  where's  the  harm?"  she  asked. 

"The  trouble  with  you,  Candy,"  he  began  with 
the  assurance  of  old  acquaintance,  but  she  cut  in 
with  a  good  humoured, 

"The  trouble  with  you,  Dana  Malone,  is  that  you 
haven't  found  yourself  out."  She  stretched  her 
tired  arms,  then  let  them  drop,  and  turned  to  the 
open  door  behind  them.  "Come  and  see  how  nice 
the  house  looks.     Everthing  is  ready." 

Candace  had  scooped  out  the  first  floor  of  the 
farmhouse  like  a  hallo we'en  pumpkin.  The  old 
entry,  parlour  and  sitting-room  were  now  one  long, 


EVER  AFTER  9 

generous  apartment,  broadside  to  the  south,  while 
kitchen,  buttery,  and  best  bedchamber  had  been 
turned  into  an  equally  long  room  to  the  north.  The 
latter  was  bare  but  for  easels,  camp  chairs,  and  a 
small  platform,  but  to  the  other  had  been  added 
every  homely  charm  compatible  with  its  uses.  It 
gave  a  sunny  impression  of  buttercup  yellow  and 
clear  white;  there  was  a  sober  gleam  of  pewter, 
the  blond  shine  of  deep  willow  chairs,  and  rag  rugs 
lay  like  blurred  rainbows  on  the  brown  floor.  A 
narrow  dinner  table  of  dark  oak  ran  half  its  length, 
and  against  the  west  wall  stood  an  aged  sideboard 
laden  with  china,  primitive  but  richly  green:  the 
other  end  was  given  up  to  fireplace  and  bookshelves. 
The  rooms  upstairs,  including  the  space  over  the 
new  kitchen  addition,  had  been  multiplied  into  many 
small,  fresh,  white  bedrooms.  Dana  was  pro- 
foundly impressed.  He  was  always  a  satisfactory 
audience  for  achievements,  having  an  endless  ca- 
pacity for  astonishment.  "Well,  what  do  you  think 
of  that!"  was  his  constant  comment  as  Candace 
showed  him  her  various  devices  for  neatness,  space, 
and  charm. 

"Why,  your  fortune's  made.  You  can't  help  it," 
he  exclaimed, as  they  came  downstairs  again.  "Pupils 
will  fall  over  each  other  to  come.  You  will  have  to 
add  on  more " 

"But  only  the  land  is  mine,  you  know,"  she  inter- 


10  EVER  AFTER 

rupted.  "That  and  the  idea.  My  angel  backer 
won't  take  interest,  but  I  mean  to  pay  her  the  princi- 
pal before  I  do  any  more  building,  let  me  tell  you." 

"And  the  cabins  for  us  poor  devils  —  that  was 
your  idea,  too,  wasn't  it?" 

Candace  smiled  shrewdly.  "That's  the  way  I 
got  her  interested.  That  is  the  philanthropy  part, 
don't  you  see?  My  summer  school  is  just  an  inci- 
dent—  to  her." 

"Well,  God  bless  the  old  lady  and  keep  her  pros- 
perous," said  Dana  solemnly.  A  laugh  escaped 
Candace,  but  she  did  not  explain. 

Although  the  lunch  gong  could  not  be  expected 
for  half  an  hour  yet,  the  "poor  devils"  of  the  cabins 
were  already  coming  hopefully  back  from  wood  and 
field,  some  with  canvases  and  camp-stools  under 
their  arms.  Serious  but  struggling  talent  and  the 
ability  to  pay  a  modest  sum  for  board  were  the  only 
stated  requirements  for  admission  to  Sky  Farm;  and 
admission  meant  three  months'  right  to  a  delicious 
pine  cabin  and  the  freedom  of  a  region  still  half  wild 
and  rich  in  beauty.  If  there  were  other  require- 
ments, Candace  did  not  mention  them;  but  a  notice- 
able sobriety  marked  these  first  tenants,  and  one 
of  them,  who  had  brought  a  prim  and  somewhat 
hungry  looking  wife,  had  been  given  a  marked  con- 
cession in  his  board  rate.  Candace  realized  that, 
with  her  summer  school  open,  she  was  approaching 


EVER  AFTER  11 

fire  to  gunpowder,  but  she  felt  an  amused  adequacy 
to  the  situation  —  especially  when  she  reviewed  her 
cottagers.  Dana  Malone  was  the  only  one  who  sug- 
gested combustible  properties,  and  she  had  no  mis- 
giving about  her  ability  to  deal  with  him.  The  fact 
that  they  had  both  been  born  in  Oakland  seemed 
to  give  her  an  elder-sisterly  authority,  and  his 
struggle,  as  well  as  his  talent,  was  appealingly 
genuine. 

At  the  first  clang  of  the  iron  triangle  hung  on  the 
porch  they  came  hurrying  up  the  green  slopes, 
Dabney,  with  his  wife's  hand  under  his  arm,  well  in 
advance.  The  struggle  was  ending  for  these  two, 
for  the  poetic  quality,  the  elusive  delicacy  and  mys- 
tery, of  Dabney's  etchings  was  at  last  being  dis- 
covered; but  it  was  ending  too  late  for  anything  but 
relief.  About  their  patient  mouths  lay  ineffaceable 
grooves  of  weariness,  the  shadow  of  lost  children. 
They  walked  with  their  heads  bent  toward  each 
other,  but  did  not  talk.  Behind  them,  streaming 
conversation,  came  Palmer  Jacks,  large,  blooming, 
handsome,  a  big  gray  moustache  sweeping  the 
seasoned  ruddiness  of  his  cheeks,  carrying  his  thin 
old  serge  suit  with  an  easy  air  of  having  bought  it  in 
London,  wearing  a  Panama  of  fifteen  years  back  as 
though  he  had  chosen  it  in  aristocratic  preference 
over  twenty  new  ones.  After  half  a  lifetime  of 
cheerful  failure  in  business,  Palmer  Jacks  had  sud- 


12  EVER  AFTER 

denly  entered  on  a  middle  age  of  cheerful  success 
as  a  painter.  His  landscapes  were  not  of  a  high 
order,  but  they  made  a  naive  appeal  to  the  romantic 
and  the  young  in  heart.  From  the  very  first  people 
had  stopped  to  look;  now  they  were  actually  be- 
ginning to  buy. 

"But  do  we  want  you  encouraged?"  Candace  had 
objected  when  he  begged  admission.  "Why  a  bat- 
tered old  worldling  like  you  should  paint  nooks  and 
grottos  and  dingles,  I  don't  see!  Your  nature  al- 
ways looks  as  if  it  were  meant  to  flirt  in.  In  another 
year  you'll  be  painting  best  sellers." 

"Well,  for  God's  sake,  let  me  get  a  square  meal 
this  year,"  he  had  persisted  with  his  subterranean 
chuckle. 

"You  ought  to  do  kittens  coming  out  of  slippers 
and  little  girls  giving  doll  tea-parties,"  Candace 
had  grumbled,  but  she  had  let  him  in.  Ludlam  was 
with  him,  a  complacent  young  fellow  with  a  pointed 
blond  beard,  who  looked  out  from  under  his  eyelids 
like  a  girl  when  he  conversed,  and  who  was  becoming 
known  as  a  painter  of  skies,  great,  bold,  sweeping 
skies  in  every  mood,  the  land  beneath  being  little 
more  than  a  purple  shadow  or  a  watery  gleam.  Near 
them,  yet  apart,  Adamovitch,  a  fragile  young  Russian 
Jew,  followed  with  bent  head.  Adamovitch  had 
been  forbidden  his  violin  for  the  present,  but  the 
cabin  in  the  sumach  bushes  occasionally  found  its 


EVER  AFTER  13 

voice  and  cried  out  its  master's  secrets  —  the  eternal 
secrets  of  youth,  of  the  alien,  of  the  mounting  spirit 
held  down  by  the  lagging  body  —  to  the  placid  June 
dusk.  A  lame  decorator  named  Willing  came  hob- 
bling in  on  a  crutch  after  the  rest  were  seated.  Will- 
ing was  also  forbidden  to  work,  but  his  cabin,  in  its 
vocal  moments,  gave  out  only  a  cheerful  whistle. 
"Just  my  luck,"  in  his  vocabulary,  meant  a  special 
brand  of  good  fortune.  He  was  an  ageless  little 
man,  somewhere  between  a  withered  thirty  and  a 
juvenile  fifty,  and  Palmer  Jacks  cherished  a  theory 
that  his  brain  was  under  some  pressure  and  had  not 
grown  up. 

"Gad!  Wouldn't  it  be  fun  to  trepan  him,  and  see 
him  wake  up  to  what  rotten  luck  he's  really  got,"  he 
had  exclaimed  to  Candace  the  first  night.  "His 
is  the  kind  of  cheerfulness  that  drives  strong  men  to 
drink.     You  haven't  any  beer,  have  you?" 

"Now  look  here,  Palmer,  if  he  drives  you  to  beer 
in  twelve  hours,  what  will  it  be  at  the  end  of  twelve 
weeks?" 

"I'd  hate  to  tell  you,"  with  a  sigh.  "If  you  could 
only  publish  Willing,  what  a  ten-cent  magazine  he'd 
make!  He'd  have  a  circulation  of  a  million  and  a 
quarter  in  two  weeks.  He's  just  what  the  public 
wants." 

Willing  dropped  into  his  place  with  a  hopeful 
glance  toward  the  long  stretch  of  empty  table. 


14  EVER  AFTER 

"School  opens  to-morrow,  doesn't  it,  Miss  Ware?" 
he  began  happily. 

"It  does."  Candace's  tone  had  a  good-humoured 
finality  before  which  Willing  looked  ingenuously 
abashed. 

"In  other  words,  what's  that  to  us?"  interpreted 
Palmer  Jacks. 

"I  might  as  well  tell  you  now  about  meals," 
Candace  went  on,  ignoring  him.  "You  people  will 
have  to  breakfast  and  lunch  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
later;  that  will  give  us  time  to  have  the  school  meals 
over  and  cleared  away  before  you  come  up.  Dinner 
will  be  at  the  usual  time,  but  the  girls  will  want  the 
room  afterward,  so  I  can't  urge  you  to  linger  in  the 
evenings." 

"I  am  sure  we  never  do.  We  always  go  straight 
to  our  cabin,"  Mrs.  Dabney  hurriedly  put  in. 
Palmer  Jacks's  eyes  were  twinkling. 

"Aren't  we  to  see  these  houris  at  all?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"You  will  meet  them  at  dinner,"  was  the  firm 
answer.  "They  are  coming  here  for  hard  work,  and 
they  don't  want  interruptions." 

"Gad!  I  never  worked  so  hard  I  wasn't  glad  to 
be  interrupted,"  muttered  Jacks. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  say  that,"  Dana 
Malone  broke  in.  "When  I'm  working  in  earnest, 
a  knock  on  the  door  feels  like  a  blow  in  the  face." 


EVER  AFTER  15 

Dana  had  not  been  there  twenty-four  hours,  but 
already  he  objected  to  Jacks  as  only  the  young  and 
reverential  can  object  to  him  whom  they  term  a 
scoffer. 

"Ah,  I  probably  have  not  your  secret  of  working  in 
earnest,"  Palmer  returned  with  mischievous  humil- 
ity. He  was  well  aware  of  Dana's  irritation,  and 
rather  liked  him  for  it.  "I  was  a  solemn  young 
ass  myself  once,"  he  admitted  to  Candace,  later. 
"Teach  him  to  laugh  and  he'll  be  all  right.  There's  a 
good  job  for  your  missionary  instincts  this  summer." 

She  shook  her  head.  "He  doesn't  need  to  laugh 
yet;  he's  perfectly  happy,"  she  explained. 

Lucy  Cuyler  stepped  down  from  the  train  with 
the  hard-won  ease  of  a  shy  person  who  has  been 
early  forced  into  social  responsibility.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  seeing  her  trunk  put  off  and  finding  her 
vehicle  would  have  worried  her  painfully  if  she  had 
not  had  to  do  it  so  often;  and,  even  as  it  was,  her 
mouth  looked  a  little  too  responsible  over  the  busi- 
ness, her  eyes  too  earnest.  A  trunk  seemed  to  her  a 
thing  of  fearsome  weight.  She  had  an  air  of  strained 
muscles  as  the  station  master  received  hers  into 
brawny  arms,  disdaining  a  truck. 

"It  is  far  too  heavy,"  she  murmured,  with  a  faint 
gasp  for  his  effort.  He  smiled  down  paternally  at 
the  disturbed  face.     Its  mature  gravity  was  amus- 


16  EVER  AFTER 

ingly  tempered  by  the  curves  of  childhood  that  still 
lingered  in  the  rounded  cheeks,  and  people  were  apt 
to  smile  at  it  when  it  was  most  responsible.  Very 
old  ladies  were  fond  of  telling  Lucy  that  she  was 
like  her  Great  Aunt  Betty,  whose  spirit  had  left  an 
aroma  that  still  lingered  in  old  corners  of  her  native 
town.  She  had  the  same  soft  colourings  —  blue  and 
brown  and  rose  —  as  the  portrait  in  the  Museum, 
but  was  saved  from  its  picture-book  prettiness  by 
the  look  of  race,  of  inherited  meaning,  that  the 
artist  had  thought  best  to  soften  in  Great  Aunt 
Betty's  thoughtful  brow  and  dignified  little  nose. 

"Ho!  That's  nothing."  The  man  gave  the 
trunk  an  extra  twirl,  to  reassure  her.  "If  you're 
one  of  them  art  students,  she  told  Jim  Lee  to  have  a 
rig  here  for  you,"  he  added.  "That's  him,  with  the 
white  horse.     I'll  bring  this." 

Jim  Lee,  roused  from  contemplation  of  the  sky 
line,  looked  the  questioner  well  over  before  answer- 
ing that  the  fare  would  be  a  dollar  and  a  half.  Jim 
always  looked  a  stranger  over  before  answering,  and 
a  dollar  and  a  half  was  the  regular  rate;  but  his 
deliberation  suggested  a  calculated  extortion,  based 
on  appearances,  and  Lucy's  lips  straightened,  obliter- 
ating the  youthful  softness  of  the  moment  before 
and  bringing  out  a  faint  suggestion  of  her  Grand- 
father Cuyler.  Old  Adrian  Cuyler,  by  his  shrewd- 
ness and  his  minute  caution,  had  lifted  his  large 


EVER  AFTER  17 

family  from  affluence  to  wealth,  but  money  was  not 
the  only  thing  that  he  had  handed  down  to  his 
descendants. 

"That  is  too  much,"  said  Lucy,  timid  but  stern. 
"It  is  only  three  miles." 

"It's  uphill  all  the  way,  lady.  Can't  take  you  for 
less."  Then,  seeing  another  wagon  edging  up,  Jim 
relented  a  little.  "Tell  you  what,"  he  confided;  "I 
won't  charge  you  nothing  extra  for  your  trunk." 

That  sounded  reasonable,  and  Grandfather  Cuyler, 
having  no  means  of  knowing  that  the  trunk  always 
went  for  nothing,  felt  free  to  withdraw  his  influence, 
leaving  Lucy  to  climb  happily  into  the  back  seat  of 
the  battered  surrey.  She  had  another  distressed 
moment  wondering  whether  she  should  fee  the  pater- 
nal station  master,  and  watched  him  uneasily,  a 
furtive  quarter  in  her  hand,  as  he  swung  her  trunk 
into  Jim  Lee's  languid  grasp.  He  paused  for  a 
remark  on  the  weather,  his  hand  resting  on  the  wheel 
in  friendly  equality,  and,  seeing  by  his  straight 
American  glance  that  a  tip  would  be  offensive,  she 
responded  with  the  radiance  of  deep  relief.  Offer- 
ing gratuities  was  always  misery  to  her,  a  misery 
compounded  of  a  subtle  shame  for  the  other  person 
and  a  great  dread  of  wounding.  And,  then,  a  quarter 
was  a  quarter!  She  dropped  it  into  her  purse  with 
unconscious  satisfaction  as  they  drove  off. 

The  divided  influences  of  Lucy  Cuyler's  inheri- 


18  EVER  AFTER 

tance  were  quaintly  reflected  in  her  appearance. 
With  a  suit  that  was  the  perfection  of  tailoring,  a 
plain  serge  of  plutocratic  distinction,  she  wore  a 
pleasant,  flowered  hat  that  any  modest  shopgirl 
might  have  chosen.  Her  gloves  were  fresh  and  ex- 
travagantly delicate,  her  little  tan  shoes  shabby  and 
unpolished,  with  worn  heels,  while  against  her  aris- 
tocratic pigskin  bag  leaned  a  not-quite-silk  umbrella 
with  a  bunch  of  artificial  cherries  on  the  handle. 
But,  if  her  belongings  were  undiscriminated,  her  love 
and  knowledge  of  natural  things  were  evidently 
strong  and  discerning.  As  they  wound  up  the  great, 
broad-backed  green  hills,  she  sat  forward  in  her 
eagerness,  studying  every  gracious  curve  and  dip  of 
the  land  with  vivid  satisfaction,  lifting  her  face  to 
the  sunny  odours  of  the  fields  and  the  cool  breath  of 
the  woods.  Two  thirds  of  the  journey  had  been 
made  in  absorbed  happiness  when  her  glance  hap- 
pened to  fall  on  the  horse,  and  so  brought  her  joy 
to  an  end;  for  she  saw  that  he  was  limping.  She 
bent  forward  for  a  better  look. 

"Your  horse  is  lame,"  she  exclaimed,  troubled 
and  reproachful. 

"Oh,  he's  just  kind  of  footsore,"  Jim  Lee  ex- 
plained, as  though  that  made  it  all  right.  "Too 
much  road  work,  that's  all." 

"Couldn't  you  turn  him  out  for  a  rest?" 

"No,  lady;  not  at  this  time  of  year." 


EVER  AFTER  19 

She  watched  the  old  fellow  trot  wincingly  down  a 
slope,  then  attack  the  next  hill  with  a  deep  sigh  in- 
flating his  slatted  sides.  "I'll  walk  up  this,"  she 
said  suddenly,  and  was  on  the  ground  before  the 
carriage  could  be  stopped.  "Couldn't  you  walk, 
too?"  she  added  diffidently. 

"Well,  you  see,  it's  like  this,  lady;"  Jim  Lee, 
sprawled  in  his  corner,  turned  a  languid  head  to  ex- 
plain. "You're  likely  to  meet  an  automobile  any 
time  on  these  roads.  He  don't  mind  them  if  you've 
got  him  in  hand;  but  down  on  the  ground  you 
couldn't  do  nothing  at  all." 

The  steep-pitched,  rutted  road  did  not  suggest 
frequent  motors,  but  Lucy  was  too  polite  to  say  so, 
and  followed  in  clouded  silence.  The  unprotesting, 
painful  tugging  of  the  aged  beast  wrung  her.  She 
would  gladly  have  carried  her  trunk  to  ease  his  load. 
That  being  impossible,  she  pulled  off  her  gloves,  put 
her  two  small  hands  on  back  of  the  surrey  and 
began  to  push. 

It  was  so  that  Dana  Malone,  coming  out  on  a 
high  bank  over  the  road,  first  saw  them  —  the  limp- 
ing horse,  the  lolling  man  half  dozing  on  the  front 
seat,  the  girl,  flushed  and  lovely  with  compassion, 
pushing  with  all  her  touching  little  might.  And 
Dana,  whose  heart  broke  over  dumb  suffering  and 
flamed  up  for  a  generous  act  —  Dana,  who  could  cry 
any  day  over  newspaper  heroics,  and  never  heard 


20  EVER  AFTER 

the  national  anthem  without  a  swelling  desire  to  die 
for  his  country,  and  believed  that  man  was  created 
to  serve,  protect  and  cherish  woman  —  Dana  Malone 
was  not  one  to  see  the  absurdity  of  the  group. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that!"  he  muttered. 
A  moment  later  he  had  scrambled  down  the  bank 
to  meet  them. 

"You  mustn't  do  that!  Let  me,"  he  exclaimed, 
so  authoritatively  that  Lucy  yielded  up  her  place 
in  startled  docility. 

"The  driver  couldn't  get  out  because  we  might 
meet  a  motor,"  she  explained,  kindly  anxious  that 
not  even  Jim  Lee  should  make  too  poor  an  appear- 
ance. A  skeptical  "H'h! "  and  a  push  that  surprised 
the  horse  relieved  Dana's  overcharged  feelings. 

"Please  get  in  again.  You  won't  make  any  dif- 
ference," he  urged,  but  she  would  not. 

"I  like  to  walk,"  she  insisted,  still  a  little  short  of 
breath.     "We  must  be  nearly  there." 

Dana,  pushing  lustily,  his  face  turned  toward  her, 
could  have  wished  the  distance  indefinite;  the  weight 
on  his  arms  felt  chivalrously  good.  It  did  not  occur 
to  him  to  make  conversation  or  to  explain  himself. 
Shyness  was  to  him  an  unknown  state,  and,  with  all 
his  generous  youth  still  vibrating  from  that  first 
glimpse  of  her,  he  could  not  descend  to  the  triviali- 
ties of  convention  and  treat  her  like  an  unintroduced 
young  lady.     So  he  simply  looked  at  her  out  of 


EVER  AFTER  21 

darkly  lit  eyes  and  rejoiced.  Not  having  the  key 
to  his  mood,  Lucy  grew  shy,  then  uncomfortable. 
Her  stolen  glances  could  not  explain  this  rough  figure 
with  his  shabby  clothes  and  perfect  ease  of  bearing, 
his  look  of  youth  and  the  streaks  of  gray  in  his  black 
hair.  Her  lips  moved  uneasily,  and  her  face  turned 
more  and  more  to  the  sun-flecked  beech  trunks  and 
the  deep  beds  of  bracken  beside  the  road.  The  June 
green  that  nearly  met  above  their  heads  was  still 
frail  and  young  in  this  high  world,  the  day's  warmth 
had  a  vivid  freshness,  and  the  ardour  of  spring 
stirred  in  unseen  wings  and  bubbling  throats.  Under 
pretence  of  a  second  look  for  a  hidden  songster, 
Lucy  fell  a  few  steps  behind;  and  so  roused  Dana 
to  speech. 

"When  I'm  rich,"  he  declared,  looking  back  with 
his  air  of  intent  discovery,  "you  know  what  I'm 
going  to  do?"  No  other  beginning  could  have  so 
interested  and  reassured  her.  She  came  closer. 
"I'm  going  to  buy  up  every  poor  old  beast  I  come 
across  and  either  kill  or  cure  him.  Just  to  get  him 
off  my  mind.     Wouldn't  that  be  great?  " 

It  was  hard  for  Lucy  to  enter  into  conversation; 
but  she  was  ruled  by  a  very  earnest  desire  to  be 
"big,"  and  she  had  long  ago  decided  that  it  was  little 
to  admit  human  intercourse  only  through  the  front 
door.  So  she  met  the  advance  with  a  conscientious 
effort  to  match  his  directness  and  simplicity. 


22  EVER  AFTER 

"But  won't  that  be  rather  individual,  just  to 
help  the  ones  you  see?"  she  objected,  out  of  her 
modern  training.  "Shouldn't  you  find  a  way  to 
help  them  all?" 

That  was  a  new  idea  to  Dana.  " I  suppose  so,"  he 
admitted  reluctantly.  "Well,  I'd  do  that,  too. 
But  it's  the  one  I  saw  that  I'd  get  my  fun  out  of! 
Shouldn't  you?" 

The  question  troubled  her.  "I  hadn't  thought  of 
either  as  fun,  exactly,"  she  admitted.  "It  is  all 
such  a  —  such  a  terrible  worry." 

"Oh,  every  good  feeling  is  fun,"  he  explained 
largely.  "Why,  the  best  fun  I  ever  had  in  my  life 
was  hauling  a  half-drowned  pup  out  of  the  East 
River.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  love  feast! 
He  was  so  grateful,  and  so  glad  to  be  alive,  it  just 
broke  your  heart.  Nice  pup,"  he  added  with  a 
reminiscent  shake  of  his  head. 

Lucy  was  rapidly  coming  to  a  real  ease  before 
his  almost  primeval  unconsciousness. 

"Yes,  that  was  fun,"  she  said  with  the  smile  that 
had  made  Great  Aunt  Betty  famous.  Dana's  stare 
deepened:  he  thought  he  had  never  in  his  life  seen 
anything  so  lovely  as  that  generous  lighting,  the  shine 
of  a  pitying  and  loving  spirit  through  the  delicate 
mask  of  shy  reserve.  For  a  moment  the  traces  of 
Jim  Lee's  horse  hung  slack,  though  the  hill  was  at  its 
steepest.     Then  they  paused  on  an  artificial  resting- 


EVER  AFTER  23 

place,  and  Lucy  saw  how  heavily  her  knight-errant 
was  breathing. 

"You  are  doing  too  much,"  she  said  distressfully. 
"We  ought  to  be  there  by  this  time.  Do  you  know 
Miss  Ware's  farm?" 

The  knowledge  of  who  she  was  flashed  into  Dana's 
consciousness  before  his  unpractical  mind  had 
reached  the  question,  and  startled  him  into  joyous 
exclamation. 

"Oh!  Why,  of  course!  Why,  you  are  the  first 
pupil  —  you're  Miss  Cuyler!  I'm  staying  there, 
in  one  of  the  cabins." 

"You  are?"  It  was  a  vivid  response,  yet  even 
vanity  could  not  have  taken  it  personally,  and  Dana 

had  none.     "Tell  me "  she  paused,  hesitating 

over  the  question. 

"I  came  yesterday,"  he  volunteered.  "You 
know,  there  are  six  cabins,  put  up  by  some  old  lady, 
a  friend  of  Miss  Ware's;  and  any  poor  artist  can 
have  one  free  for  the  summer.  I'm  a  musician  my- 
self, and  so  there's  a  piano  in  mine.  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  anything  like  that?" 

She  was  suddenly  constrained.  "So  you  like  it 
here?"  she  asked,  her  face  averted. 

"Like  it?"  They  were  emerging  from  the  woods, 
and  he  looked  out  over  the  rolling  land  with  the 
deep  breath  of  an  expanding  spirit.  "Like  it? 
Now  look  here,  Miss  Cuyler!     Suppose  you  lodged 


24  EVER  AFTER 

in  the  Black  Hole  of  Calcutta,  and  dined  in  a  cellar, 
and  took  your  outing  in  a  subway;  and  then  suppose 
an  angel  out  of  heaven  handed  you  all  this  free  and 
threw  in  a  piano  —  do  you  think  'like  it'  would  be 
the  word?"  She  flushed,  so  deeply  that  he  thought 
his  vehemence  had  been  too  aggressive,  and  hastened 
to  soften  it.  "I  have  just  come,  so  I'm  half 
cracked,"  he  apologized.  "Please  don't  mind  if  I 
rave.     See,  there  is  the  house  now." 

They  had  rounded  the  hilltop,  and  only  a  brief 
dip  lay  between  them  and  the  last  climb  up  to  the 
spreading  old  farmhouse  set  in  an  immensity  of  sky. 
Lucy  gave  it  a  quick  look,  then  stopped  the  carriage. 

"I  will  get  in  now,"  she  said.  "Thank  you  for 
helping."  Her  nod  of  dismissal  was  so  oblivious  of 
him  that  Dana  turned  into  a  side  path  with  a  sur- 
prising consciousness  of  hurt  feelings.  Lucy,  mean- 
while, had  turned  to  Jim  Lee  and  nervously  opened 
negotiations.  When  they  pulled  up  at  the  door, 
she  had  bought  the  old  white  horse  for  thirty  dollars. 

Candace  showed  the  house  to  the  new  pupil  before 
she  had  taken  off  her  hat,  pointing  out  the  cabins  to 
her  from  the  upstairs  windows. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  your  job?"  she  asked, 
cheerfully  confident,  as  they  came  to  the  end  in 
Lucy's  room. 

"O  Candy!"  Lucy  turned  hastily  to  shut  the  open 
door.     "  If  some  one  had  heard  you ! " 


EVER  AFTER  25 

"They'd  have  heard  only  the  pure,  white  truth," 
was  the  serene  answer.  Lucy,  still  holding  the  door, 
faced  her  with  a  worried  question  growing  in  her 
eyes. 

"Do  you  think  I  ought  to  tell? "  she  finally  brought 
it  out. 

"No,  my  dear,  I  don't." 

"Still,  if  it  involved  you  in  any  lies " 

"It  won't.  And  I  shouldn't  mind  if  it  did.  But 
I  wish  you  had  put  up  one  cabin  less  and  got  your- 
self a  decent  umbrella." 

"I  didn't  care  for  that,  myself;"  Lucy  appeared 
surprised  at  the  coincidence  of  tastes.  "But  the 
woman  told  me  it  was  an  unusual  bargain;  and  I  do 
lose  them  so  often,  Candy."  She  was  begging  for 
approval,  but  Candace  was  relentless. 

"See  that  you  lose  this  as  soon  as  possible,  then," 
she  said.  "How  can  you  make  people  think  you're 
an  artist  with  such  an  atrocity  in  your  possession?" 

Lucy,  at  bay,  had  courage.  "I  don't  think  it  is 
so  bad  as  all  that,"  she  said  stoutly,  putting  it  out 
of  sight.  "It  does  very  well  for  what  I  want."  She 
took  off  her  hat,  brushing  the  dust  from  its  un- 
distinguished trimmings  with  a  care  that  made 
Candace  smile.  "I  have  found  such  a  nice  little 
milliner,"  she  confided.  "You  wouldn't  dream  how 
cheap  this  was." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  would,"  was  the  firm  answer. 


26  EVER  AFTER 

Lucy  looked  disconcerted.  "Don't  you  think  it  is 
pretty  and  becoming?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"Then  why  isn't  that  enough?"  She  was  almost 
offended. 

"Well,  if  you  like  a  Mary  Ann  hat  with  a  Queen 
Anne  suit,  it  is,"  was  the  drawling  answer,  uttered 
so  good  humouredly  that  Lucy  suddenly  laughed 
and  flung  the  hat  on  a  shelf. 

"I  am  glad  you  approve  of  something,"  she  said. 
"Oh,  by  the  way,  I  have  just  bought  a  horse  —  he 
limped,  and  it  worried  me.  You  will  have  to  do 
something  with  him." 

"Upon  my  word!"  Candace's  hand  fell  with 
affectionate  heaviness  on  the  girl's  shoulder. 
"Lucy,  you  are  a  duck." 

"Don't  tell  any  one  I  did  it,"  Lucy  urged.  "Oh, 
I  should  so  hate  it  if  they  found  it  all  out!  I  simply 
could  not  stay.     And  I  want  to  stay." 

"Pretty  lonely,  down  there?" 

"Oh,  no."  She  would  have  stopped  there  with 
any  one  else,  but  Candace  had  long  ago  trampled 
a  breach  in  the  wall  of  Lucy's  reserve,  and  been 
rewarded  with  a  confidence  that  sometimes  touched 
and  startled  her.  "No,  not  lonely,  but  responsible. 
I  am  always  doing  such  hard  things,  like  addressing 
committees  and  meeting  boards.  There  is  some- 
thing to  screw  up  courage  for  every  day,  Candy! 


EVER  AFTER  27 

Even  buying  a  railroad  ticket  takes  an  effort,  don't 
you  think?  " 

Candace 's  sleepy  smile  curled  her  lips  and  the 
corners  of  her  eyes.  "I  suppose  it  does  —  for  you. 
You  don't  need  a  protector  for  the  big  moments  of 
life,  Lucy,  but  you  do  need  some  one  to  help  you 
across  streets,  don't  you?" 

"Not  up  here!  I  haven't  felt  so  free  in  years. 
Candy,  do  you  think  it  was  very  selfish  of  me  to 
rent  the  North  Shore  house?  " 

"Why,  child?" 

"  Why,  there  are  so  many  people  who  have  always 
been  asked  to  it  every  year:  they  must  have  counted 
on  it  for  this  summer.  I  have  had  them  just  the 
same,  ever  since  I  have  been  alone,  but  you  have 

no  idea "    Loyalty  to  her  guests  stopped  her, 

and  she  ended  the  sentence  with  a  sigh.  "I  couldn't 
be  expected  to  invite  any  one  here,  could  I?"  she 
added,  looking  contentedly  about  her  narrow  white 
cell.     "  Isn't  it  dreadful  to  be  so  glad ! " 

"Shocking,"  said  Candace. 

Lucy's  advance  to  meet  the  introductions  of 
dinner  time  and  her  brave  plunge  into  social  relations 
led  Dana  Malone  to  one  of  his  inspired  discoveries. 
When  she  had  excused  herself,  at  the  end  of  the 
meal,  to  finish  her  unpacking,  he  beckoned  Candace 
aside. 

"You   know   what   she's   like?"   he   burst   out. 


28  EVER  AFTER 

"  Queen  Victoria !  No,  wait  a  moment "  —  his  lifted 
hand  forbade  her  rising  laughter  —  "I  don't  mean 
in  looks !  But  don't  you  know  how,  when  the  Queen 
was  young  and  had  to  make  a  speech  from  the 
throne  or  something,  she  would  be  so  frightened, 
yet  so  perfectly  composed?  She  was  too  royal  to 
notice  her  own  timidity:  her  poor  little  paws  might 
be  like  ice,  but  she  spoke  with  the  tongues  of  the 
Queen  of  Great  Britain  and  Empress  of  India. 
I've  read  about  it.  Well,  don't  you  see  what  I 
mean?" 

Candace  considered  him  with  good-humoured 
severity.  "Look  here,  Dana,  if  you  go  to  discover- 
ing queens  among  my  pupils,  there's  going  to  be  an 
empty  cabin  in  the  wildwood." 

"Oh,  come  off!"  And  Dana  turned  disgustedly 
away. 

"Is  she  one  of  the  Boston  Cuylers?"  asked 
Palmer  Jacks  from  the  doorway. 

"She  lives  in  Milton,"  Candace  answered,  after 
an  almost  imperceptible  hesitation. 

"Poor  relation,  maybe.  I  shan't  ask  her.  It's 
the  bitterness  of  death  to  be  asked  if  you're  one  of 
the  Boston  So-and-sos  when  you  aren't.  I  knew 
a  woman  who  went  there  from  St.  Louis  with  the 
name  of  Adams,  and  the  question  spoiled  her  life. 
She  finally  married  a  man  named  Jones,  to  end  it." 
Palmer  stepped  out,  and  paused  on  the  porch  to 


EVER  AFTER  29 

light  a  pipe.  "Well,  since  we're  not  urged  to  linger 
any  more,  good  night ! "  he  said.     "  Stroll,  Ludlam?  " 

Ludlam  followed  with  his  peculiar  gracefulness 
of  motion.  He  ran  to  long  points  —  fingers,  feet, 
and  even  nose  as  well  as  blond  beard,  and  his  coats 
fitted  at  the  waist,  thus  cutting  him  off  instantly 
and  forever  from  Dana  Malone's  sympathies. 
Jacks,  however,  was  not  troubled  by  prejudices,  and 
the  two  wandered  away  together  in  companionable 
silence. 

"I  am  wondering  if  I  shall  tell  you  something," 
began  Ludlam  presently,  speaking  through  his 
favourite  smile,  a  small,  clever  smile  of  a  cosmo- 
politan significance.  Palmer's  love  of  gossip  was 
as  shameless  as  it  was  sincere.  He  removed  his 
pipe  and  cocked  his  head  for  better  attention. 

"Go  ahead,"  he  commanded. 

"It  begins  with  a  slight  adventure  of  mine,  three 
years  ago,  down  on  the  North  Shore;"  Ludlam 
took  up  the  tale  with  a  visible  relish  for  the  pleasures 
of  conversation.  "There  was  a  most  wonderful 
bit  of  coast,  entirely  cut  off  by  stone  walls  and 
'private  property'  signs.  You  know,  Jacks,  I'm 
a  peculiar  person  in  some  ways:  I  respect  other 
people's  rights,  even  their  preferences.  I  am  made 
that  way  —  I  can't  be  otherwise.  But  the  temp- 
tation was  overwhelming,  and  there  was  no  one  in 
sight,  so  the  scrupulous  Ludlam  dropped  over  the 


30  EVER  AFTER 

wall  like  any  apple  thief  and  began  sketching.  You 
remember  my  picture  in  the  Academy,  two  winters 
ago?  It  was  catalogued  as  'Earth  and  Sky  and 
Sea.'  Of  course,  I  don't  care  for  that  sort  of 
literary  tag  —  to  me  it  was  just  a  happy  develop- 
ment of  green  paint;  but  they  like  a  title.  It  made 
a  good  deal  of  a  sensation :  there  was  always  a  crowd 
about  it.  That  was  its  beginning,  and  a  cross 
gardener  came  near  being  the  end  of  it.  He  quite 
ordered  me  off.  I  can't  row  with  such  people,  so 
I  was  meekly  going  when  a  delightful  young  woman 
in  deep  mourning  came  to  the  rescue,  and  I  was 
told  —  very  shyly,  yet  with  an  air,  you  understand 

—  that  I  might  sketch  there  day  and  night  if  it  so 
pleased  me." 

"Well?"  Palmer  prompted.  "I  suppose  in  the 
second  act  you  saved  her  life,  and  in  the  third  you 
married  her?" 

Ludlam's  smile  became  very  knowing.  "You 
might  say  that  the  second  act  was  just  beginning. 
I  found  out  that  she  was  Miss  Lucy  Cuyler,  grand- 
daughter of  old  Adrian,  and  sole  owner  of  the  place 

—  her  mother  had  recently  died.  After  that,  I 
frankly  averaged  eight  hours  a  day  within  sight 
of  her  verandas,  until  I  discovered  that  she  had 
gone  away  on  a  visit.  I  never  saw  her  again  until 
to-night." 

Palmer  replaced  his  pipe  and  smoked  thoughtfully 


EVER  AFTER  31 

over  the  news.  "So  we  have  an  heiress  in  our 
midst,"  he  mused. 

"That  is  the  mystery  of  it.  Why  should  she 
come  off  here  for  the  summer?  Of  course,  it's  a 
delightful  farm,  and  all  that;  but,  as  a  man  of  the 
world,  Jacks,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  such 
a  life  is  a  pis  aller,  a  makeshift,  a  tiding  over  till 
more  fortunate  times.  And  for  a  girl  who  could 
have  anything  she  chose  — 3fe  " 

"If  she  is  old  Adrian  Cuyler's  grandchild  she 
came  here  to  save  money  —  you  can  bet  on  that," 
Palmer  began  with  emphasis,  then  looked  apologetic. 
"Not  but  that  she  seems  a  very  charming  young 
lady,"  he  added  with  a  bow,  as  if  she  stood  bodily 
before  them. 

"We  might  as  well  keep  it  to  ourselves,  don't 
you  think?"  Ludlam  suggested  with  his  sidelong, 
almost  coy,  glance. 

"Gad,  yes.  Can't  you  see  little  Willing  gawping 
up  at  an  heiress  and  asking  her  how  it  felt?" 
Palmer's  chuckle  was  not  unkind.  "I  don't  sup- 
pose she  can  paint,  do  you?" 

"Why  should  she?"  returned  Ludlam  with  a 
shrug. 

Dana  Malone,  meanwhile,  had  gone  back  very 
soberly  to  his  cabin.  He  was  troubled,  restless, 
full  of  sudden  despair  at  the  hopeless  limitations 
of  his  chosen  career.     Ever  since  he  had  left  Lucy 


32  EVER  AFTER 

that  afternoon,  a  choking  sense  of  loneliness  had 
dragged  at  his  throat.  And  now,  since  dinner, 
seeing  her  so  friendly  and  so  remote,  he  felt  like 
a  beggar  in  rags  outside  a  palace  gate,  gazing  up  at 
a  balcony  where  a  princess  sat  and  did  not  even 
know  he  existed.  She  would  never  be  aware  of 
him,  fine,  sweet,  shy  gentlewoman,  queen  and  little 
girl  in  one  —  yet  how  she  had  pushed  for  that  old 
horse!  The  thrill  of  his  first  sight  of  her  stung  him 
again  and  again:  no  repetition  of  the  vision  could 
weaken  its  poignancy.  It  kept  her  human  for  him, 
brought  her  for  a  flying  second  within  his  reach. 
He  even  laughed  over  it  —  those  poor,  dear  arms ! 
—  and  stretched  his  own  big  muscles,  longing  to  use 
them  again  in  her  service.  The  thought  that  per- 
haps he  could  play  to  her  came  at  last  like  an  inspi- 
ration. The  thick  growth  about  his  cabin  had 
already  shut  out  the  twilight,  but  he  groped  his 
way  to  the  piano  and  laid  unerring  hands  on  the 
keys. 

Yet  he  did  not  play  that  night.  As  though  the 
first  chord  had  been  a  signal,  the  barrier  between 
himself  and  the  amazing  truth  fell  away,  and  his 
hands  faltered.  Understanding  in  words  had  not 
yet  come,  but  his  ready  heart  leaped  to  full  knowl- 
edge. The  cabin  became  a  haunted  place;  the 
darkness  was  all  a  great,  warm  Presence,  and  he 
felt  the  precious  weight  of  arms  on  his  shoulders, 


EVER  AFTER  33 

the  moth-touch  of  lips  on  his  upturned  face.  When 
the  vision  faded  he  arose,  chilled  and  stiffened, 
to  find  the  night  half  gone.  His  face,  as  he  struck 
a  light,  was  white  and  frightened. 

"Love  at  first  sight,"  he  muttered,  as  though  the 
phrase  had  for  the  first  time  reached  his  under- 
standing. "Love  at  first  sight.  My  God,  it's 
really  true!" 


CHAPTER  TWO 

It  would  have  been  a  blessing  to  Lucy  Cuyler's 
girlhood  if  her  mother  had  been  a  poor  woman  and 
had  been  forced  to  turn  her  great  executive  abilities 
to  business  purposes.  Being  denied  this  outlet,  Mrs. 
Cuyler  ran  her  household  with  a  terrible  efficiency. 
Since  she  could  not  rule  the  private  school  to  which 
all  the  "nice  girls"  of  the  day  went,  she  had  Lucy 
taught  at  home;  and  so  the  shy  child  grew  to  a  shy 
girl  with  almost  no  young  companionship.  Occa- 
sionally her  cousins  swept  her  off,  in  an  indignant 
attempt  to  "rescue"  her,  but  these  escapes  were 
not  wholly  successful.  Lucy  did  her  courageous 
best  and  looked  her  prettiest,  but  there  was  always 
a  lack  of  fundamental  ease,  a  sense  that  the  con- 
versation was  made,  not  born.  When  some  brave 
young  man  ventured  to  call,  Mrs.  Cuyler  received 
him  and  gave  him  her  vigorous,  intelligent  views 
on  the  topics  of  the  day,  while  Lucy  sat  at  one  side, 
glad  to  be  relieved  of  the  responsibility  and  very 
little  interested  in  the  affair.  Her  paints  and  the 
garden,  books  and  dreams  and  the  hunger  for  beauty 
made  up  her  rich,  secret  life,  and  though  a  vague, 

34 


EVER  AFTER  35 

roseate  cloud  that  she  called  love  lay  gloriously 
along  the  horizon,  she  never  dreamed  of  connecting 
it  with  any  of  these  calling  young  men,  nervously 
correct  under  her  mother's  eye. 

No  one  had  ever  come  close  to  her  until  the 
secure  bulwark  of  her  mother's  presence  had  been 
swept  away,  three  years  before,  leaving  her  stricken 
and  in  terror  at  the  inundation  of  her  kindly,  sorry 
world.  She  had  finally  run  away  to  elderly  rela- 
tives down  on  Long  Island,  and  there,  on  the  white, 
rolling  sand  dunes,  with  the  wind  sweeping  in,  keen 
and  salty,  from  the  open  sea,  she  had  found  Candace 
Ware.  The  very  tolerance  of  Candace's  smile  had 
been  a  revelation  to  her.  Lucy  had  lived  with  an 
unrebellious  acceptance  of  shut  doors  on  every  side; 
Candace's  tranquil,  "But  why  not?"  seemed  to 
set  them  trembling  on  their  hinges,  swinging  magi- 
cally open.  What  she  learned  about  painting  in 
those  laborious  weeks  under  Candace's  guidance 
was  as  nothing  beside  what  she  learned  about 
human  companionship  and  individual  liberty.  She 
implored  Candace  to  come  and  live  with  her,  but 
could  not  move  her. 

"I've  got  my  work  to  do,  child,"  was  her  good- 
humoured  ultimatum.  But  she  had  promised  and 
made  a  yearly  visit,  and  their  eight  weeks  in  Europe 
together  had  been  the  happiest  time  of  Lucy's  life. 
Candace  had  paid  every  penny  of  her  own  way, 


36  EVER  AFTER 

insisting  that  Lucy  should  live  down  to  her  level  — 
and  twinkling  amusedly  when  she  saw  that  the 
other  really  enjoyed  their  scrimping.  It  was  the 
poor  teacher  who  insisted  on  cabs  and  comforts  when 
they  were  travel-tired.  Candace  laughed  at  her 
without  mercy,  yet  the  girl's  faith  and  devotion  had 
grown  to  be  one  of  the  pleasantest  facts  of  her  life. 

The  cottagers  were  lingering  about  the  breakfast 
table  when  Lucy  came  down  the  next  morning. 
Mrs.  Dabney  rose  at  once,  with  a  nervous  murmur 
to  her  husband,  and  drew  him  away,  but  the  others 
chose  to  consider  that  school  had  not  yet  begun. 
Ludlam  sprang  to  pull  back  her  chair,  and  Willing's 
ingenuous, 

"Oh,  why  didn't  I  do  that!"  roused  a  shout  of 
laughter.  Lucy's  blue  and  rose  and  brown  had  a 
lovely  morning  freshness  above  her  blue  cotton 
frock,  and  they  all  turned  to  her. 

"I  was  just  telling  them  what  a  queer  thing 
happened  overnight,  Miss  Cuyler,"  Palmer  Jacks 
explained.  "A  white  horse  has  sprung  up  from 
the  meadow,  like  Venus  out  of  the  foam." 

"It  looked  to  me  as  if  it  came  out  of  a  horsecar," 
said  Willing,  so  seriously  that  they  laughed  again. 

"I  think  it's  a  poet  in  disguise,  myself,"  Palmer 
went  on.  "But  there's  no  use  asking  Miss  Ware: 
she  just  sits  there  and  smiles." 

"I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  take  a  horse  to 


EVER  AFTER  37 

board,"  Candace  protested.  "It  won't  be  half  so 
much  trouble  as  the  rest  of  you." 

"I'll  bet  Venus  doesn't  pay  rent,"  returned  Jacks. 
"You'll  pauperize  him  just  as  you  are  pauperizing 
us.  Miss  Cuyler,  did  you  know  that  Miss  Ware 
is  doing  actual  moral  harm  in  the  world  —  that  she 
is  undermining  our  financial  independence  and 
weakening  our  moral  fibre  by  giving  us  luxuries  we 
can't  pay  for?" 

"Oh,  come!"  broke  in  Dana  Malone,  starting  from 
an  abstracted  silence.     "What  rot!" 

Lucy  had  flushed,  but  she  returned  Candace's 
stolen  glance  with  one  of  amusement.  "I  shouldn't 
think  a  pine  cabin  could  hurt  any  one's  moral  fibre," 
she  said. 

"Anything  for  nothing  is  bad,"  Palmer  insisted. 
"Some  one  once  gave  me  five  hundred  dollars,  in  a 
burst  of  good  will  —  or  insanity,  perhaps;  and, 
I  can  tell  you,  I  was  pauperized  on  the  spot.  I 
went  about  for  two  years  trying  to  find  some  one 
else  in  the  same  mood.  It's  a  bad  job  that  is 
being  done  here  on  this  farm  —  you  mark  my 
words." 

"But,  if  you  can't  take,  you  can't  give!"  Dana 
was  explosive  with  protest.  "You  believe  in  giving, 
don't  you?  When  I  see  what  this  place  does  for 
one,  every  hour  —  why,  it's  a  big,  definite  gain  in 
moral  fibre  to  be  here.     I  think  Miss  Ware  —  and 


38  EVER  AFTER 

the  bully  old  lady  back  of  her  —  are  doing  as  fine 
a  piece  of  work  as  I  ever  heard  of!" 

There  was  a  deep  murmur  of  assent  from  the 
young  Russian  and  a  perfunctory  echo  from  Ludlam, 
who  looked  annoyed  at  having  his  status  at  the 
farm  so  publicly  referred  to.  Willing  also  sprang  to 
the  defence  with  a  bald : 

"If  you  feel  that  way,  I  don't  see  why  you  stay!" 

Jacks  chuckled.  "My  dear  young  friends,"  he 
said,  rising,  "there  are  moments  when  preserving 
one's  moral  fibre  is  not  the  first  consideration.  Miss 
Cuyler,  if  you  care  to  see  one  of  these  breeding 
places  of  pauperism,  I  shall  be  charmed  to  have 
you  inspect  my  cabin  any  time." 

"I  am  going  to  show  Miss  Cuyler  all  the  cabins 
this  morning,  so  you'd  better  have  them  in  order," 
Candace  warned  them,  and  the  men,  being  their 
own  housemaids,  left  in  some  haste.  Not  till  they 
were  well  down  the  hill  did  the  two  women  dare 
look  at  each  other.  Then  Lucy  broke  into  a 
smothered  laugh. 

"Oh,  if  they  ever  found  out!"  she  cried,  her  face 
pressed  against  Candace's  shoulder.  Then  a  sober- 
ing thought  lifted  her  head.  "You  don't  think 
there  is  anything  in  —  what  Mr.  Jacks  said,  do  you?  " 
she  asked  anxiously. 

"Of  course  not,  and  neither  does  Palmer  himself. 
He   was   just   talking.    No;   I   agree   with   Dana 


EVER  AFTER  39 

Malone,  my  dear  —  I  consider  you  a  bully  old 
lady."  Lucy's  laughter  ran  over  again,  yet  she 
was  not  wholly  reassured. 

"I  suppose  that  free  homes  might  do  harm,"  she 
persisted. 

"Yes,  they  might.  You  always  run  that  risk 
when  you  try  to  do  good.  You  must  watch  and 
judge  that  for  yourself  this  summer,  Lucy." 

"But  you  had  been  considering  the  idea  for  years, 
hadn't  you?" 

"Well,  I  had  been  feeling  sorry  for  years,  wishing 
that  various  poor  things  I  knew  could  get  a  com- 
fortable chance  at  the  country.  I  haven't  put 
any  deep,  economic  thought  into  it,  I'm  afraid." 

Lucy  sighed.  "Giving  is  so  terribly  respon- 
sible!" 

"Yes;  but  so  is  not  giving,"  said  Candace  mildly. 

"Every  one  does  give,  at  home,  enormous  sums, 
for  everything."  And  Lucy  sighed  again,  as  though 
the  future  lay  heavily  upon  her. 

They  went  down  the  hill  an  hour  later,  and  Lucy 
yearned  to  live  in  each  of  the  pine  cabins  in  turn. 
Realization  of  what  these  aromatic  little  homes  must 
mean  to  cramped  refugees  from  the  city  struggle 
made  her  glow  with  the  joy  of  giving.  As  Dana 
Malone  had  said,  a  rescue  was  "fun."  She  was 
eager  to  put  up  more  cabins,  to  make  more  people 
utterly  happy.     Most  of  the  tenants  were  out,  but 


40  EVER  AFTER 

they  found  Mr.  Dabney  on  his  knees,  planting  ferns 
against  his  front  wall. 

"My  wife  thinks  it  looks  so  bare  and  new,"  he 
explained.  "Do  you  suppose  they  will  grow?" 
His  tone  was  patiently  hopeless,  and  Candace 
paused  to  consider  their  chances,  letting  Lucy  go  in 
alone  to  Mrs.  Dabney,  who  always  sat  indoors, 
no  matter  what  lure  the  day  outside  might  offer. 
She  was  sewing,  and  gathered  up  the  white  breadths 
of  her  work  with  nervous  apology. 

"I  hate  to  have  any  one  see  the  place  looking  as 
it  does,  anyway,"  she  sighed.  "But  there  is  no 
place  to  put  anything.  I  spend  half  my  time  picking 
up,  but  it  doesn't  do  any  good." 

Lucy  could  see  no  disorder,  and  said  so.  This  was 
the  largest  of  the  cabins,  boasting  a  room  and  a 
half  as  well  as  a  fireplace,  and  the  streaming  sun- 
light suffused  the  fresh  pine  walls  with  a  golden 
glow.  Casement  windows  framed  broad  pictures  of 
rolling  green  land  and  blue  sky.  The  desire  to  move 
in  at  once  made  the  visitor  exclaim  aloud: 

"Oh,  I  do  envy  you,  Mrs.  Dabney!" 

"It  could  be  very  nice,"  Mrs.  Dabney  admitted. 
"But  can  you  imagine  building  a  place  with  no 
more  closet  room  than  that?"  She  lowered  her 
voice,  with  a  cautious  glance  toward  the  two  out- 
side. "A  shelf  with  a  curtain  and  nine  hooks  —  that 
is  positively  all.    It  is  so  stupidly  planned,  anyway. 


EVER  AFTER  41 

If  you  have  that  window  open  at  night,  there  is  a 
gale  on  you;  and  if  you  close  it,  you  don't  get  air 
enough.  I  spend  half  the  night  opening  and  shut- 
ting things." 

Lucy  was  troubled.  "Couldn't  you  arrange  a 
screen?"  she  suggested. 

"Oh,  it's  hardly  worth  while  to  do  anything." 
Mrs.  Dabney  pressed  her  thin  fingers  across  her 
big,  white  forehead.  "Miss  Ware  wants  us  to  stay 
all  summer,  but  I  don't  believe  we  shall.  I  hate 
living  with  my  trunk  in  the  room  —  but  it  is  full 
of  our  things.  As  I  tell  Mr.  Dabney,  I  shall  be 
more  tired  by  trying  to  keep  picked  up  than  rested 
by  the  outing.  I  hope  you  will  come  again,"  she 
added,  as  Lucy  rose.  "The  days  are  so  long  in  a 
place  like  this." 

Lucy  could  scarcely  contain  her  protest  until 
they  were  out  of  earshot. 

"Candy,  she  does  nothing  but  complain!"  She 
was  hurt  as  well  as  indignant.  "It  is  a  darling 
place,  and  she  can't  talk  of  anything  but  closets. 
Do  let  her  go,  and  give  it  to  some  one  who  will  get 
the  good  of  it." 

Candace's  smile  had  never  been  more  lazily 
tolerant.  "She's  getting  the  good  of  it,  child.  She 
has  gained  five  pounds  at  least  since  she  came,  and 
her  voice  has  gone  down  two  keys." 

"But  she  isn't  appreciative " 


42  EVER  AFTER 

"Ho!  You're  thinking  of  gratitude,  are  you? 
Enjoy  that  when  it  comes,  little  Lucy,  but  don't 
concern  yourself  about  it  when  it  doesn't.  You  do 
such  things  because  you  think  they're  needed: 
thanks  don't  alter  the  results." 

"But  —  but  —  no,  I  think  it  is  a  failure,  Candy, 
when  a  person  takes  it  like  that.  She  ought  to  pay 
rent,  that  woman!     I  should  make  her." 

"Well,  this  tenant  is  appreciative,  anyway,"  said 
Candace  soothingly  as  they  turned  into  the  path 
that  led  to  Dana  Malone's  hidden  dwelling. 

Dana  had  swept  and  ordered  his  cabin  in  a  glory 
of  zeal.  The  joy  of  the  present  had  suddenly  sub- 
merged the  cold  dismay  to  which  he  had  wakened. 
It  was  warm,  bright  June  and  she  was  coming: 
that  was  enough  for  the  hour.  His  bed  became  a 
couch,  by  day,  and  a  green  burlap  screen  hid  the 
washstand:  the  rest  was  rough  pine  beams  and 
casement  windows  opening  widely  into  the  woods, 
and  a  bare  stick  or  two  of  furniture,  too  unobtrusive 
to  take  away  from  the  wildwood  charm  of  the  little 
place.  When  all  was  in  order,  Dana  brought  in 
lavish  armfuls  of  ferns  and  pine  boughs,  fastening 
them  up  against  the  walls,  and  dug  up  a  great,  flat 
white  stone  to  serve  as  a  doorstep  to  her  feet.  He 
would  have  brought  in  the  whole  woodland  for  her 
had  she  not  ended  his  labours  by  coming. 

She  paused  on  the  new  doorstone  with  a  surprised, 


EVER  AFTER  43 

"Oh!  Oh,  lovely!"  that  brought  Candace  up 
beside  her. 

"Well,  Dana!  You  look  like  the  ice-cream  booth 
at  the  county  fair,"  the  latter  said  admiringly. 

"More  like  Peter  Pan's  cottage,"  said  the  kindly 
Lucy.  "Aren't  we  interrupting  your  work?"  His 
protest  was  cut  short  by  Candice's  emphatic: 

"I'm  glad  we  did  interrupt  it.  You  will  find 
those  young  pine  trees  on  your  board  bill  next 
Saturday." 

"Oh,  come!  I  only  took  branches  that  didn't 
show,"  he  declared  joyously.  "Won't  you  both 
sit  down  and  visit  me?  I  never  before  was  a  real 
host,  in  a  home  of  my  own.  It's  a  tremendous  feel- 
ing. Miss  Cuyler,  are  you,  here  in  the  East,  born 
just  yearning  to  entertain,  as  we  are  in  California?" 

"I  don't  know."  Lucy's  honesty  was  reluctant. 
"I  always  think  of  it  myself  as  something  rather 
worrying  and  responsible." 

"Oh,  I  don't.  It's  the  dream  of  my  life  to  come 
out  into  my  own  front  hall  in  a  big  white  waistcoat 
and  welcome  a  lot  of  splendid  people  who've  come 
to  dinner!"  He  laughed,  tilting  back  on  the  piano 
stool  with  a  knee  in  his  clasped  hands. 

"And  you'd  show  them  all  over  the  house," 
Candace  derided  him. 

"Oh,  yes  —  the  new  bathrooms  and  the  old 
mahogany  and   the  —  O   Candy,   how   could   you 


44  EVER  AFTER 

help  it?"  he  pleaded.  "Think  what  it  would  mean! 
By  jinks!" 

"Well,  if  you  want  to  begin  on  the  mahogany, 
there  is  actually  some  left,  about  here,"  Candace 
suggested.  "The  collectors  haven't  found  it  all 
out,  for  some  reason.  I  got  that  old  sideboard  —  did 
you  notice  it,  Lucy?  —  from  a  farm  over  here  a 
little  way,  and  they  had  a  lovely  table  —  possibly 
other  things." 

"Were  they  expensive?"  Lucy  asked  with  interest. 

"Dirt  cheap,  a  month  ago.  But  the  people  may 
have  learned  better  by  this  time.  Or  been  cleaned 
out.  Play  something  for  us,  Dana  —  something  of 
your  own." 

He  turned  readily  about,  and  it  was  then,  with 
his  face  bent  over  the  keys,  that  Lucy  Cuyler  really 
saw  him  for  the  first  time.  Her  eyes  kept  returning 
to  him  with  a  sense  of  startled  discovery.  It  was 
not  a  handsome  face,  yet  about  the  idealistic  brows, 
the  irregular,  jutting  chin  and  wide,  thin-lipped 
mouth  touched  with  sweetness  at  the  corners,  she 
found  a  latent  nobility  that  was  very  close  to 
beauty  —  that  really  was  beauty,  she  decided,  with 
a  consciousness  of  caught  breath,  when,  at  the  end, 
he  looked  across  to  her  with  a  smile.  She  had 
scarcely  heard  what  he  played,  but  the  response 
in  her  face  satisfied  him.  Dana  took  his  music 
very  simply.     He  knew,   without  vanity,   that  it 


EVER  AFTER  45 

was  good,  and  loved  it  frankly,  but  exacted  nothing 
from  others. 

"You'll  like  this,  too,"  he  said,  and  this  time 
Lucy  heard,  a  haunted,  Celtic  melody  full  of 
ghosts  and  dreams.  "I  got  that  from  something 
my  Grandfather  Malone  used  to  play  to  me  on  his 
violin,  when  I  was  a  kid,"  he  explained.  "He 
called  it  'Mary  Alone.'  He'd  have  been  a  great 
musician  if  he  had  ever  had  a  chance."  He  would 
have  risen,  but  Lucy  begged  for  it  again.  There 
was  an  eerie  call  running  through  it  that  set  her 
heart  beating:  she  waited  for  its  repetitions  with 
thirsty  eagerness,  and  heard  it  end  each  time  with 
a  sad  sense  that  she  could  never  have  enough  of  it. 
It  called  and  called  her  until  the  cabin  was  as  rich 
in  glamour  as  the  garden  of  her  secret  girlhood. 
Oh,  the  longing  of  it,  the  weird  pain  of  its  moonlit 
cry! 

"Dana,  if  you  play  that  insane  thing  again,  I 
shall  howl  like  a  lost  dog,"  exclaimed  Candace, 
rising.  "Thank  you  for  your  hospitality.  You 
will  make  a  perfectly  good  host  when  the  time  comes. 
Lucy,  do  you  want  to  come  back  to  the  house? 
You  have  seen  all  the  cabins." 

Lucy  roused  herself  to  the  practical  present  with 
a  faint  sigh.  "  Can't  we  go  and  look  at  that  woman's 
old  furniture?"  she  asked.  Candace  consulted 
her  watch* 


46  EVER  AFTER 

"I  don't  dare.  The  girls  will  be  here  in  less 
than  an  hour.    But  I  could  tell  you  how  to  go." 

"Let  me  show  her;"  Dana  had  started  up.  "I 
know:  it's  the  Barrow  farm,  where  you  get  your 
eggs.  May  I,  Miss  Cuyler  —  do  you  mind?  "  Lucy, 
with  a  smile,  did  not  "mind,"  and  Candace  went 
serenely  back  to  her  duties,  not  dreaming  that  she 
left  behind  her  anything  more  interesting  or  dan- 
gerous than  the  pursuit  of  old  furniture. 

Lucy  would  have  turned  shy  without  Candace's 
protecting  presence,  but  Dana's  absolute  ease  seemed 
to  bestow  on  her  some  of  his  freedom  of  spirit.  For 
he  was  never  free  and  easy  —  there  was  nothing  to 
repel:  he  was  simply  incapable  of  understanding 
the  involuntary  barriers  that  may  hamper  willing 
spirits.  The  happiness  of  the  present  was  still 
overflowing  in  his  voice  and  gait  and  his  solicitous 
care  for  her  as  they  followed  a  path  through  the 
woods. 

"I'm  glad  you  liked  that  Celtic  thing,"  he  began. 
"I  have  some  others  that  I  must  play  for  you.  I 
got  them  all  from  my  grandfather  —  hints  of  them, 
you  know,  and  the  words  —  so  I  am  going  to 
publish  them  under  his  name,  Brian  Malone." 

"That  is  very  generous,"  said  Lucy,  and  some- 
thing in  her  secretly  added,  "and  just  what  you 
would  do!"  with  an  intensity  that  brought  a  glow 
to  her  face. 


EVER  AFTER  47 

"Oh,  it's  a  better  name  for  the  songs,  anyway," 
he  demurred.  "My  name  is  a  half-breed.  The 
Malones  were  coming  up  in  the  world  as  the  Danas 
were  coming  down,  so  they  met,  you  see.  I'd 
change  my  name  to  Brian,  only  —  well,  my  mother 
did  care  such  a  lot  about  the  Danas!"  with  a  laugh 
of  comprehending  affection. 

"Oh,  and  doesn't  it  matter  what  they  cared 
about  —  afterward!"  It  was  a  momentous  burst 
of  confidence  from  Lucy.  "At  the  time  you  don't 
think  much  about  it:  you  want  to  do  your  own  way. 
But  when  they  are " 

He  nodded  understandingly.  "Yes;  then  you 
don't  see  how  you  could  have  gone  against  them  so 
brutally,  every  chance  you  had." 

"And  so  you  try  to  be  more  what  they  wanted," 
she  took  it  up.  "My  mother  cared  so  about  com- 
mittees and  board  meetings  and  charities"  — the 
path  had  brought  them  up  against  a  rail  fence,  and 
Lucy  leaned  on  the  bars,  looking  out  across  the 
open  fields  with  misty  eyes  —  "and  I  never  even 
really  listened  when  she  wanted  to  tell  me  about 
them.  I  never  asked  questions  or  went  with  her 
of  my  own  accord.  Never,  once."  She  had  told  the 
aching  secret  of  her  life  to  an  absolute  stranger; 
and  yet  she  was  conscious  only  that  the  moment  was, 
for  some  reason,  big.  Dana's  arms  rested  beside 
hers  on  the  fence  rail,  his  eyes,  touched  and  respon- 


48  EVER  AFTER 

sive,  followed  hers  to  the  shining  clouds  of  the  far 
horizon. 

"Don't  you  think  they  understand  —  fathers  and 
mothers?"  he  urged.  "Don't  you  suppose  they 
remember  how  they  went  against  their  own  parents, 
and  then  broke  their  hearts  over  it?  Perhaps  that 
is  why  they  were  so  everlastingly  patient  and  for- 
giving: they  knew  how  it  was  all  going  to  wrench 
us,  some  day,  and  that  then  we'd  at  least  remember 
what  they  wanted.     I  think  they  knew!" 

"Do  you?"  The  tremulous  hope  in  her  voice 
wrung  him.     "If  I  could  only  be  sure  of  that!" 

"Well,  just  think  back;"  he  was  burning  to  help 
her.  "  Can't  you  remember,  when  you  were  awfully 
cussed  and  trying,  how,  suddenly,  they  would  stop 
being  furious,  and  just  give  you  the  sorriest  kind  of 
smile,  a  sort  of,  'Oh,  you  poor  child!'  look?  That 
was  it:  they  were  remembering,  and  realizing  how 
you'd  pay  in  your  turn.   Oh,  of  course  they  knew!" 

Lucy  stood  transfixed  before  a  memory,  her  last 
memory  of  her  mother  able-bodied  and  active, 
though  perhaps  the  softening  of  the  end  had  already 
touched  her  militant  spirit;  for,  before  Lucy's  open 
reluctance  to  accept  a  charitable  secretaryship,  she 
had  laid  her  large,  strong  hand  on  her  daughter's 
shoulder  with  a  tolerant  smile.  "Never  mind, 
dear,  the  time  will  come,"  she  had  said.  Until  this 
moment,  that  memory  had  been  a  piercing  pain: 


EVER  AFTER  49 

now  she  saw  it  lightened  of  its  reproach,  transfused 
with  a  beauty  of  meaning  before  which  her  hurt 
spirit  rose  up  like  the  healed  Lazarus. 

"Oh,    I    didn't    dream"  —  she   murmured;    "I 

didn't  dream "     She  forgot  to  go  on,  and  Dana 

waited  patiently  beside  her,  motionless  lest  he 
disturb  the  big  thoughts  reflected  in  her  rapt 
face. 

A  thrush  sang,  suddenly,  over  their  heads,  clear- 
ing the  air  like  a  silver  shower.  They  looked  up, 
smiling,  to  find  him.  Dana  boyishly  vaulted  the 
bars  before  letting  them  down  for  her;  he  had  to 
do  something  with  his  brimming  vitality.  The 
glistening  pillars  of  cloud  on  the  far  horizon  had 
begun  to  show  black  on  their  under  sides,  and  a 
breeze  of  mischievous  meaning  came  dipping  over 
the  young  wheat. 

"Shower,"  he  announced  joyously,  and  she  laughed 
as  at  good  news. 

"We  must  hurry,"  she  said. 

The  track  along  the  edge  of  the  wheat  sloped 
temptingly  before  them.  Neither  knew  which 
began  to  run  first:  perhaps  the  spirit  in  their  feet 
ran  away  with  both  at  once.  They  flew  at  top 
speed,  miraculously  without  labour:  it  was  like 
flight  in  dreams,  when  one  skims  the  grass  tops,  high 
breasted  and  arms  streaming.  A  prosaic  ending 
loomed  ahead  in  a  stile  and  a  public  highway,  but, 


50  EVER  AFTER 

before  they  had  slackened,  Lucy's  ankle  faltered,  and 
she  stumbled  wildly  forward. 

.As  though  his  arms  had  been  waiting  for  this 
moment,  Dana  caught  her,  caught  her  up,  warm 
and  panting,  in  a  clasp  that  was  like  a  shout  of 
joy.  She  was  instantly  freed:  not  a  finger  pressure 
did  she  need  for  her  release,  there  was  not  even  time 
for  a  thought  of  escape.  Yet  she  had  been  there, 
in  his  arms,  and  they  both  knew  it  in  every  fibre 
as  she  laughed  over  the  accident,  and  assured  him 
she  was  not  hurt,  and  steadied  her  loosened  hair. 
She  crossed  the  stile  with  great  decorum,  even  with 
formality,  as  though  to  atone  for  that  outburst 
of  youth,  and  Dana  saw  again  his  young  Queen  and 
the  throne.  He  did  not  offer  her  even  the  tips  of 
his  fingers. 

The  Barrow  farm  lay  just  across  the  highway, 
a  dreary,  unkempt  place,  overrun  with  chickens. 
The  fine  old  white-pillared  house  was  rotting  with 
neglect,  the  barns  sagged  threateningly,  the  yard 
they  crossed  was  strewn  with  rubbish.  The  Bar- 
rows had  gone  down  in  the  world.  A  slatternly 
figure  of  discouraged  middle  age  opened  the  back 
door  to  them  and  heard  their  request  with  apathetic 
eyes. 

"There's  a  table  in  there,"  she  admitted.  "You 
can  go  look  at  it  if  you  like."  Beyond  a  nod  toward 
a  door,  she  did  not  offer  to  show  them  the  way. 


EVER  AFTER  51 

They  crossed  a  broad  hall,  of  beautiful  propor- 
tions, but  unspeakably  dirty  and  airless,  and  opened 
the  door  of  a  big  room  that  must  have  been  handsome 
in  its  day,  but  was  squalid  and  stained  now,  bare 
but  for  a  table  in  the  centre  and  nearly  dark  because 
of  the  grime  on  the  window-panes.  Dana,  shudder- 
ing, tried  to  let  in  some  fresh  air,  but  the  windows 
were  nailed  fast.  Lucy  had  turned  eagerly  to  the 
table. 

"O  Mr.  Malone!"  she  cried,  excited,  but  cau- 
tious. "It  is  one  of  the  old  hundred-legged  tables! 
Why,  they  are  rare,  aren't  they?" 

"So  it  is,"  he  exclaimed,  bending  down  to  examine 
the  many  slender,  fluted  legs  that  supported  the 
broad  leaves  of  the  top.  "And  it  is  in  pretty  good 
order,  too.  What  a  find!"  He  discovered  a  rag 
and  rubbed  away  some  of  the  dust,  and  they  rejoiced 
over  it  until  Lucy  was  seized  by  a  panic  fear  that 
another  purchaser  might  even  now  be  at  the  door, 
and  hurried  him  back  to  the  kitchen.  The  question 
of  price  was  always  dreadful  to  her,  and  she  met 
it  with  a  quaint  mixture  of  sternness  and  timidity, 
nerved  by  the  blood  of  old  Adrian  Cuyler  even  while 
Great  Aunt  Betty's  softness  would  have  begged  off. 

"I  like  the  table,  Mrs.  Barrow,"  she  said.  "What 
did  you  —  what  will  you  sell  it  for?" 

The  woman  was  patching  a  man's  shoe,  tugging 
painfully  as  the  needle  stuck  in  the  heavy  leather. 


52  EVER  AFTER 

"There's  a  kind  of  demand  for  them  things  now," 
she  said  wearily.  "We  had  a  lot  once  —  I  wisht 
we'd  kep'  'em.     I'll  have  to  ask  you  nine  dollars." 

Dana  gasped  audibly,  but  Lucy  met  the  price 
with  a  grave  little  nod. 

"Will  that  include  boxing  it  for  shipping?"  she 
asked. 

"We  couldn't  box  it  very  well;  but  he'll  deliver 
it  anywheres  about  here."  She  was  dully  anxious 
not  to  lose  the  sale.  Lucy  appeared  to  debate 
before  conceding  the  point. 

"Very  well.  If  your  husband  will  bring  it  up 
to  Miss  Ware's,  I  will  give  him  the  money:  nine 
dollars."  For  the  first  time,  the  woman  showed  a 
spark  of  human  feeling.  Her  hands  paused,  and 
she  lifted  her  head. 

"No:  you  pay  me,"  she  said  sternly.  "Bring 
it  when  you  like;  but  you  give  it  to  me."  The  clos- 
ing of  her  lips  told  bitter  truths.  Then  the  spark 
died  out  and  she  went  on  doggedly  stabbing  the 
needle  through  the  harsh  leather. 

They  got  away  with  a  sense  of  escape,  breathing 
deep  the  clean  June  air,  feeling  as  if  their  garments 
and  hands  still  held  the  smell  of  stale  poverty. 
Lucy  would  have  been  gay  over  her  bargain,  but 
Dana  was  unresponsive,  and  his  face  was  so  down- 
cast that  she  fell  silent,  wondering.  When  he 
turned  to  help  her  over  the  stile,  their  eyes  met. 


EVER  AFTER  5S 

"You  think  it  is  a  good  table,  don't  you?"  she 
asked,  timid  again  before  his  change  of  mood. 

"That's  just  it!"  He  rested  an  elbow  on  the  top 
step,  facing  her  eagerly,  yet  breathing  nervously 
with  the  difficulty  of  explaining.  "You  don't 
know,  of  course;  but  down  in  New  York  I'm  always 
prowling  about  the  antique  shops,  and  I  know 
that  a  table  like  that,  put  in  order,  would  sell 
for  seventy  or  eighty  dollars,  easily  —  more  on 
Fifth  Avenue." 

"Yes?"  Her  clear  eyes  showed  only  puzzled  ques- 
tion, and  his  colour  rose. 

"Don't  you  see?  Any  dealer  would  give  her 
twenty  dollars  or  even  twenty-five  like  a  shot  if  she 
knew  enough  to  ask  it.  And  she's  so  horribly  poor! 
You  couldn't  be  expected  to  know  about  prices;"  his 
voice  caressed  her;  "but  I  do,  and  I  was  wondering 
if  you  wouldn't  let  me  —  oh,  you  know,  suppose  I 
bought  half  of  it,  and  we  gave  her  twenty  dollars? 
I  could  perfectly  well  —  don't  hate  me !  Only  she's 
so  horribly  poor!" 

Her  eyes  were  still  lifted,  but  they  looked  strained 
and  frightened,  and  the  colour  was  rushing  to  her 
very  hair.  He  could  not  know  that  Lucy,  lover  of 
every  aspect  of  beauty,  and  so  open  at  that  moment 
to  new  influence  that  the  voices  of  the  past  in  her 
were  feeble  —  that  Lucy,  ashamed,  and  yet  moved 
beyond  minding  her  shame,  was  in  spirit  swept  to 


54  EVER  AFTER 

her  knees  before  him.  He  struck  the  step  with  a 
desperate  fist. 

"I'm  a  fool,  I'm  a  fool,"  he  muttered. 

"Oh,  you  are  right!"  He  saw  rather  than  heard 
the  choked  whisper.  "You  are  beautifully  right! 
I'll  do  it  —  not  you  —  I  will  pay  her  well.  Oh,  I 
am  so  glad  you  said  that!"  The  last  words  were 
audible,  and  brought  her  hands  into  his. 

"You're  so  lovely,"  he  stammered. 

"I  hadn't  —  realized " 

"No,  of  course  not  —  you  couldn't!  But  I  had 
to  say  it " 

"I  am  so  glad  you " 


A  splash  of  water  in  their  faces  brought  them  back 
to  earth  with  a  shock  that  ended  in  startled  laughter. 
The  shower  was  close  upon  them.  They  hurried 
up  the  hill  and  dived,  breathless,  into  the  shelter 
of  the  woods  just  in  time  to  escape  drenching.  The 
path  was  still  dry,  but  the  rush  of  rain  over  their 
green  roof  showed  that  it  would  not  stay  dry  long. 
They  were  both  thinking  of  the  broad  sweep  of  open 
meadow  between  Lucy  and  the  house.  Presently 
Dana  hurried  ahead  to  plunge  into  his  cabin,  coming 
out  with  an  old  raincoat  over  his  shoulders. 

"You  wait  in  there,"  he  commanded,  as  imperi- 
ously as  he  had  ordered  her  away  from  the  carriage, 
at  first  sight.     "I'm  going  up  to  get  your  things." 

"But  if  I  took  the  coat "  she  began.     The 


EVER  AFTER  55 

idea  of  that  old  rubber  garment  touching  her  was 
impossible  to  him. 

"Oh,  no;"  with  a  quick  frown.  "Besides,  you 
must  have  rubbers  and  an  umbrella.  I  won't  be 
long." 

He  wasted  no  time  waiting  for  her  consent,  and 
Lucy,  warned  by  a  cold  splash  on  her  thin  sleeve, 
stepped  into  the  cabin.  She  was  glad  to  be  by 
herself  for  a  moment,  to  catch  her  breath  spiritually 
as  well  as  bodily.  Yet  she  did  not  succeed  very 
well.  The  little  green-bo wered  place  was  still 
echoing  to  her  of  "Mary  Alone."  All  the  warm, 
stirring  experiences  of  the  morning  came  back  to  her 
set  to  that  longing  call.  She  sat  with  her  head  in 
her  hands,  her  ears  so  filled  by  inner  voices  that 
she  did  not  hear  a  light  step  running  along  the 
path,  and  started  violently  as  some  one  came  through 
the  open  door  with  a  jump. 

Ludlam  also  started,  but  quickly  recovered  him- 
self. 

"Ah,  Miss  Cuyler!  So  you  are  a  refugee,  too?" 
he  exclaimed,  setting  a  large  canvas  carefully  against 
the  wall.     "Where  is  our  host?" 

"He  has  very  kindly  gone  up  to  the  house  for 
my  things;"  Lucy  spoke  with  a  gentle  formality 
that,  for  some  unrecognized  reason,  kept  Ludlam 
from  taking  a  seat.  He  leaned  gracefully  against 
the  doorpost. 


56  EVER  AFTER 

"What  a  lot  of  real  sacrifice  the  conventions 
demand  of  us,"  he  observed  through  his  smallest 
smile.  "In  a  simpler  world  he  could  have  had 
the  great  pleasure  of  sheltering  you  until  the  shower 
had  passed." 

Lucy  decided,  quite  suddenly,  that  she  did  not 
like  this  blond  man  with  his  glances  and  his  little 
pointed  beard  and  his  long,  pointed  elbows. 

"In  a  simpler  world  one  might  not  mind  getting 
wet,"  she  said  with  a  quiet  dignity  that  was  wholly 
Victorian.  Ludlam  felt  her  unreasonable.  He  knew 
that  he  had  charm,  and  was  irritated  when  others 
were  too  perverse  to  recognize  it.  He  would  waste 
no  more  of  what  he  called  "Ludlam  at  his  best" 
on  this  stiff  little  person  from  Massachusetts,  but 
would  descend  at  once  to  commonplace  methods. 
So  he  told  her  what  he  had  meant  to  reserve  for  a 
surprise,  a  delicate  climax  to  a  series  of  charming 
effects  in  conversation. 

"Ever  since  you  came,  Miss  Cuyler,  I  have  been 
cherishing  a  wild  hope  that  you  might  recognize 
me,"  he  began.  He  had  at  least  roused  her  interest: 
her  eyes  questioned. 

"Have  we  met?"  she  asked,  as  he  did  not  explain. 

"Not  met,  exactly.  I  was  an  unknown  tres- 
passer stealing  a  sketch,  you  were  the  lady  of  the 
manor,  who  delivered  me  out  of  the  hands  of  an 
angry  gardener.    It  was  three  summers  ago."    He 


EVER  AFTER  57 

paused  hopefully  for  her  recognition,  but  she  looked 
only  politely  regretful. 

"So  many  artists  have  sketched  on  our  point," 
she  apologized.  That  gave  him  pause,  very  much 
as  if  she  had  said  that  photographers  often  gathered 
there.  A  visible  moment  for  recovery  was  needed 
before  he  went  on. 

"I  simply  wanted  you  to  know  that  I  owe  to 
you  and  your  point  what  many  people  have  con- 
sidered my  best  work.  The  picture  was  in  the 
Academy  two  winters  ago  and  made  rather  a 
sensation."  He  was  beginning  to  get  back  his 
usual  tone.  "It  is  a  good  thing  to  shake  New  York 
up  once  in  a  while  —  set  the  critics  praising  and 
scolding,  and  fighting  one  another.  Echoes  of  it 
may  have  reached  you." 

Lucy's  vague  murmur  might  have  been  taken 
for  assent  had  it  not  stood  so  much  more  plainly 
for  inattention.  Ludlam's  vanity  was  not  of  the 
dull  kind.  He  withdrew  into  a  bored  silence,  which 
lasted  until  the  touch  of  a  fern  on  his  ear  drew  his 
glance  to  the  walls.  Their  carefully  massed  greenery 
brought  a  startled  frown.  He  had  tactfully  absented 
himself  when  his  own  cabin  was  visited  that  morn- 
ing, but  he  had  first  strewn  it  with  interesting 
sketches,  and  had  brought  up  from  the  bottom  of 
his  trunk  various  volumes  of  distinction  —  Verlaine, 
St.   Francis,   Walter  Pater  —  which  he   threw  on 


58  EVER  AFTER 

table  and  couch.  Obviously,  this  wild  Westerner 
had  also  been  moved  to  decorate  for  his  guest;  and 
had  done  it  with  a  crude  openness  that  should  have 
offended  a  girl  of  sensitive  perceptions.  Obviously, 
too,  Lucy  Cuyler's  position  in  the  world  was  not 
the  secret  up  here  that  he  had  imagined  it.  The 
rawness  of  the  performance  made  him  shiver  dis- 
gustedly. 

"Malone  seems  to  have  passed  a  busy  morning," 
he  observed.  "I  feel  very  remiss;  I  should  at  least 
have  put  'Welcome'  over  my  door."  He  could  not 
tell  whether  she  ignored  or  quite  missed  the  covert 
derision  of  his  tone. 

"I  thought  yours  looked  very  charming,"  she 
said  simply. 

"If  you  like  this  sort  of  thing;"  he  shrugged 
expressively.  "The  sylvan  does  not  appeal  to  me. 
You  know,  I  am  above  all  things  urban.  You  may 
think  that  strange,  considering  the  character  of  my 
work;  but  it  is  true."  In  the  joy  of  self-expression, 
he  articulated  more  and  more  beautifully;  his  teeth 
were  slightly  bared,  as  though  to  bite  the  words 
off  more  neatly.  "It  comes  from  what  I  sometimes 
call  my  duality.  As  a  painter,  I  get  everything  from 
nature;  but,  the  moment  my  work  is  done,  the  man 
Ludlam  asserts  himself  and  demands  civilization. 
Frankly,  Miss  Cuyler,  don't  you  find  this  life  here 
a  hideous  bore?" 


EVER  AFTER  59 

"You  find  it  so?" 

"Oh,  depressing  beyond  words!  One  makes  use 
of  the  place.  It  is  here,  it  saves  money  —  I  quite 
frankly  find  that  desirable,  just  at  this  moment. 
It  does  well  enough.  But  the  people  aren't  exactly 
our  sort  —  you  must  admit  that.  One  feels  kindly, 
of  course;  but  a  girl  like  you  can't  find  it  satisfying." 

"I  should  scarcely  stay  if  I  did  not."  Lucy 
spoke  indifferently,  but  for  a  second  time  that 
morning  she  was  hot  with  protest.  Her  gift  was 
being  exploited,  used  with  contempt:  for  a  second 
time  she  saw  it  as  a  failure. 

"Oh,  'stay'!  One  stays  because  it  is  easy.  But 
when  I  hear  raptures  over  it " 

Through  the  open  window  Lucy  saw  Dana  coming, 
and  started  up  with  a  relief  that  was  unconsciously 
frank. 

"Here  are  my  things,"  she  exclaimed.  "O  Mr. 
Malone,  you  are  drenched!    I  am  so  sorry." 

Dana  shook  the  water  from  his  hair  with  a  laugh. 

"It  doesn't  matter.  Oh,  hello,  Ludlam!"  His 
voice  changed  as  he  saw  the  other  man,  but  he  was 
too  innately  hospitable  to  remember  prejudices 
under  his  own  roof -tree.  "Make  yourself  comfort- 
able. Now,  Miss  Cuyler!"  He  knelt  and  put  on 
her  overshoes,  then,  after  holding  her  raincoat  for 
her,  opened  the  near-silk  umbrella  with  the  cherries 
on  the  handle.     Lucy  sensitively  glanced  up  to  see 


60  EVER  AFTER 

if  he  were  scorning  it;  then  dropped  her  eyes  with 
a  quickened  colour,  the  look  she  met  was  so  little 
akin  to  scorn.  He  kept  the  umbrella  in  his  own 
hand.     "I'll  take  you  home,"  he  said. 

She  protested,  would  not  hear  of  it,  but  Dana 
simply  waited  for  her  to  come,  smiling  instead  of 
arguing,  and  she  went  off  outwardly  annoyed  at 
his  obstinacy,  inwardly  rejoicing  in  his  strength. 
They  had  both  forgotten  Ludlam,  who  looked  after 
them  from  the  window  with  a  smile  that  was  very 
small  indeed. 

The  rest  of  that  day  had  a  curious  quality  for 
Lucy.  A  bright  haze  seemed  to  lie  between  her  and 
all  reality,  and  only  by  determined  effort  could 
she  keep  her  eyes  clear  and  her  ears  open.  The 
moment  she  was  alone,  it  rolled  about  her  until  she 
sat  fixed  in  the  centre  of  a  shining  web,  motionless, 
uncurious,  and  marvellously  glad.  Conscientious 
habit  drove  her  down  to  the  others,  and  her  surface 
self  gave  and  took  impressions  just  as  usual;  yet 
she  felt  as  if  her  soul  had  sent  forth  her  body  to 
do  its  work,  while  it  remained  aloof,  busied  with 
its  own  glorious  affairs. 

The  rain  soon  passed  over,  and  the  old  farmhouse 
opened  to  let  out  a  stream  of  girls.  They  spread 
down  the  sunny  meadows  with  laughter  and  cries 
of  delight  and  little  aimless  runs,  and  an  auburn- 
haired  young  woman  was  promptly  mounted  on 


EVER  AFTER  61 

the  white  horse.  They  all  knew  one  another,  and 
to  Lucy  their  comradely  ease  was  a  little  terrifying. 
Though  several  had  reached  her  own  twenty-three 
years  and  two  were  distinctly  older,  they  seemed 
to  have  kept  a  schoolgirl  quality  that  she  had  never 
known.  Her  impulsive  first  thought  was  that  she 
did  not  like  them;  then  she  told  herself  that  that  was 
not  "big,"  and  set  out  with  a  reflection  of  Great 
Aunt  Betty's  shy  loveliness  in  her  face  to  make 
friends.  They  met  her  cordially,  considered  her 
"perfectly  sweet,"  and  presently  forgot  all  about 
her  in  the  excitement  of  organizing  a  game  of  base- 
ball.    She  slipped  away  unnoticed. 

The  strange  glamour  rolled  up  about  her  again 
as  soon  as  she  was  free  of  them.  She  wandered 
vaguely  about  the  fields,  climbing  little  hills  and 
sitting  down  beside  running  water,  utterly  happy 
and  unquestioning.  The  smell  of  sweet  fern  was 
destined  to  stir  her  heart  for  years  to  come,  because 
she  held  a  piece  of  it  in  her  hand  all  that  dream- 
haunted  afternoon. 

Dinner  had  been  a  pleasant  occasion  to  Lucy  the 
night  before,  but  to-night  she  felt  herself  swamped 
in  numbers,  and  ate  in  shy  silence.  At  her  first 
glance  toward  the  other  end  of  the  table  she  met 
Dana  Malone's  dark  gaze,  and  did  not  dare  look 
that  way  again.  As  soon  as  the  meal  was 
done,  she  escaped    to   her  room;    yet  some  veiled 


62  EVER  AFTER 

instinct  told  her  that  the  day  was  not  over  for 
her. 

The  cloudless  western  sky,  rising  from  still  white 
depths  of  luminous  pearl  through  the  dawning  green 
of  curling  sea-waves  to  a  frail  echo  of  some  far-off 
flush,  drew  her  to  the  window  and  held  her  there 
on  her  knees.  Beauty  was  to  her  a  mighty  voice, 
never  heard  without  an  awed  response.  The  cares 
that  infested  her  town  days  had  shrivelled  away 
like  coarse  outer  petals  no  longer  needed:  she  felt 
herself  expanding  into  something  white  and  lovely 
and  fragrant,  floating  on  the  vast,  still  pool  of  night. 

She  had  come  upstairs  trembling  before  a  dim 
consciousness  that  something  was  happening.  She 
tried  to  explain  the  sudden  rush  of  happiness  by 
its  obvious  causes:  it  was  blessed  to  be  with  Candace 
and  to  catch  a  little  of  her  amazing  ease  in  human 
relations  by  sheer  wonder  at  it;  it  was  interesting 
to  meet  a  new  world  and  make  new  friends;  it 
was  beyond  everything  good  to  be  free  of  ordeals, 
with  beauty  for  her  daily  companion  and  the  effort 
to  reproduce  it  her  only  task.  Yet  there  was  more. 
Some  new  wine  was  distilled  in  this  high  air,  some 
stirring,  opening  quality  that  lay  like  a  glint  of  gold 
dust  over  all  her  surroundings  and  gave  her  a  magic 
sense  of  impending  joy.  The  namable  satisfactions 
were  forgotten,  or,  rather,  fused  into  a  great,  word- 
less jubilation  as  she  knelt  before  the  wide  night. 


EVER  AFTER  63 

All  her  fresh  young  soul  strained  up  and  up  to  meet 
its  benediction. 

A  sound  brought  her  back  to  earth,  but  so  gently, 
so  graciously,  she  was  scarcely  conscious  of  the 
return.  The  woodland  below  took  on  a  voice,  and 
a  faint  echo  of  "Mary  Alone"  rose  from  its  shadow. 
No  building  was  to  be  seen  from  Lucy's  window,  but 
the  mouth  of  the  path  leading  to  Dana's  cabin 
could  be  made  out  at  the  wood's  edge.  It  was  a 
composer's  touch  on  the  piano,  not  technically 
masterful,  but  warm,  intimate,  creative.  Again  and 
again  the  longing  strain  drew  itself  out  just  beyond 
reach:  soft  pedal  or  distance  kept  it  tantalizingly 
blurred.  The  need  to  hear  it  wholly  and  satisfy- 
ingly  drew  Lucy  like  thirst,  first  down  to  the  deserted 
side  porch,  then  down  the  hill  to  the  edge  of  the 
woodland,  then,  a  step  at  a  time,  along  the  dark 
tunnel  of  the  path  that  led  to  the  cabin.  She  did 
not  smile  over  the  adventure,  there  was  no  mischief 
in  her  silent  approach.  Something  stronger  than 
music  was  drawing  her.  In  all  her  cool,  quiet  girl- 
hood she  had  never  before  heard  that  summons,  and 
now,  hearing  it  suddenly  at  full  strength,  though 
without  a  glimmer  of  understanding,  she  obeyed  it 
as  simply  as  wise  men  follow  a  star. 

Dana,  in  his  unlighted  cabin,  was  playing  to  her, 
consciously  calling  and  calling  her  through  the 
recurring  strain,  letting  its  lonely  plaint  grow  to 


64  EVER  AFTER 

hunger  and  appeal,  and  finally  rise  to  a  bolder  cry, 
before  which  Lucy  woke  with  a  frightened  start 
and  fled  noiselessly  away.  After  that  Dana  sat 
for  a  long  time  with  his  arms  crossed  on  the  music- 
rest  and  his  forehead  pressed  against  them.  For, 
through  the  open  window,  he  had  seen  the  gleam 
of  her  white  gown. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

No  earthly  power  could  stop  it.  Lucy  might 
withdraw  behind  her  shyness,  spend  her  days  work- 
ing with  the  busy  class,  keep  her  eyes  on  her  plate 
at  dinner,  Dana  might  prostrate  himself  nightly 
before  the  grim  facts  of  his  hopeless  poverty  and  his 
general  un worthiness;  yet  the  stolen  tide  swept 
steadily  on  until  "all  the  world  was  in  the  sea,"  and 
not  fright  nor  honour  nor  any  mortal  barrier  could 
keep  their  eyes  from  leaping  together  when  they 
met.  After  that,  Lucy  took  to  wandering  away 
from  the  class;  and,  as  she  was  a  privileged  pupil, 
the  absorbed  Candace  never  thought  of  questioning 
her.  There  was  no  understanding,  spoken  or  tacit, 
with  Dana  Malone,  and  yet,  the  first  time  she 
deserted  the  earnest  colony  of  camp  stools,  within 
five  minutes  she  had  come  upon  him,  leaning  over 
the  rail  of  a  little  bridge.  The  radiance  of  his  un- 
spoken welcome  drove  her  to  a  hasty  refuge  in  words. 

"I  ran  away  from  work,"  she  explained. 

"So  did  I.  How  can  one  work!"  The  exclama- 
tion acknowledged  so  much  that  again  Lucy 
scrambled  to  shelter. 

65 


66  EVER  AFTER 

"What  are  you  working  at?"  she  asked,  dropping 
pebbles  upon  her  reflection  in  the  pool  below. 

"I'll  tell  you  some  time.  Please  don't  —  you 
make  me  feel  as  if  some  one  were  hitting  you  in 
the  face." 

She  laughed,  and  tossed  a  pebble  that  shattered 
his  image. 

"Now  some  one  is  hitting  you  in  the  face," 
she  said.     "How  does  an  Irishman  take  that? " 

"Ah,  if  it's  a  lady,  he  begs  her  to  keep  right  on!" 

Lucy,  of  course,  desisted.  Presently  the  two 
images  were  looking  gravely  up  at  them  again  from 
the  stilled  pool. 

"I  think  we  ought  to  introduce  them,"  she  ob- 
served. "To  be  in  such  a  little  pool  together  and 
not  know  each  other  must  be  awkward,  don't 
you  think?" 

"But  we  weren't  introduced  until  hours  after 
we  met.  Suppose  some  one  had  dropped  into  that 
road  and  said,  'Mr.  Malone,  Miss  Cuyler'  —  oh, 
it  wouldn't  have  been  half  so  wonderful.  Let  them 
find  each  other  out."  Their  eyes  met,  laughing 
acknowledgment  of  the  deliciousness  of  "fooling." 

"We  will  come  here  to-morrow  and  see  how  they 
are  getting  on,"  she  said.  "Then,  if  they  seem  stiff 
or  embarrassed,  we  can  help  them  out." 

"They  won't  be  stiff  after  twenty -four  hours-  of 
June,"  he  assured  her,  stretching  out  his  arms  as 


EVER  AFTER  67 

though  to  take  in  all  the  day's  loveliness.  "I 
think,  if  you  don't  mind,  Miss  Cuyler,  we'd  better 
knock  on  the  bridge  to-morrow  before  we  look 
over." 

It  was  hard  to  keep  a  straight  face,  but  Lucy 
achieved  it.     "I  don't  see  why,"  she  said. 

"No,  I  don't  either,"  he  amended,  so  hastily 
that  the  lady  in  the  pool  would  have  shown  a  tiny 
crescent  moon  risen  in  either  cheek  had  the  light 
been  strong  enough.  "Did  you  hear  about  our 
young  Russian  friend?"  he  added,  penitently  eager 
for  a  safe  topic. 

"No  — what?" 

"He  lit  out  this  morning  without  a  word  to  any 
one  —  packed  his  dishes  and  went  home.  Miss 
Ware  has  found  out  that  he  took  the  early  train 
for  town,  so  she  isn't  worried  about  him.  But  it  was 
a  cool  performance,  wasn't  it!"  He  was  surprised 
at  the  feeling  Lucy  showed.      Her  eyes  quite  flashed. 

"I  think  it  was  abominable,"  she  exclaimed. 
"How  can  people  be  so  —  so  unappreciative!  He 
might  at  least  have  said  good-bye."  She  turned 
away  from  the  pool  as  though  its  charm  were 
broken  for  her.  "I  wonder  if  you  really  can  help 
people!" 

"I  tried  to  make  friends  with  him,"  Dana  ex- 
plained as  they  left  the  road,  taking  a  path  that 
wound  steeply  up  through  the  woods.     "But  he 


68  EVER  AFTER 

was  a  queer,  dismal  chap,  and  he  had  so  little 
English.     I  couldn't  get  anywhere." 

"No;  but  I  am  thinking  of  these  cabins."  Lucy 
was  mounting  with  an  energy  that  was  still  indig- 
nant. "They  were  meant  —  evidently  —  to  make 
people  so  very  happy;  and  they  seem  such  a  failure. 
No  one  really " 

"They  have  made  one  man  very  happy,"  Dana 
interrupted,  holding  out  his  hand  to  help  her  up  a 
steep  pitch.  Lucy  caught  the  stem  of  a  sapling 
and  drew  herself  up  unaided. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Willing,"  she  admitted.  Her  griev- 
ance had  suddenly  evaporated,  and  her  eyes  were  full 
of  laughter. 

"Oh,  Willing  would  be  happy  anyway.  That 
is 'his  luck.'" 

"You  would,  too,  wouldn't  you?  Aren't  you 
a  happy  person?" 

"At  this  minute,  yes." 

"No,  but  usually?" 

"I  have  been  —  or  thought  I  was.  I  didn't 
know  what  they  really  were  —  happiness  and 
unhappiness  —  till  I  came  here."  His  hand  went 
out  again,  and  though  the  path  was  easy  enough 
at  the  moment,  hers  sprang  to  meet  it.  With  that 
soft  treasure  in  his  possession,  Dana  forgot  every- 
thing: he  stood  holding  it  in  both  hands  against 
his  coat  as  he  might  have  held  a  frightened,  throb- 


EVER  AFTER  69 

bing  bird.  The  instant  it  struggled,  he  opened  his 
hands  and  let  it  dart  away.  They  went  on  in  silence, 
Lucy  springing  ahead.  Presently  the  woods  ended, 
bringing  them  out  on  a  stony  hilltop,  crowned  with 
an  aged,  weather-beaten  oak.  They  sat  down  in  its 
shade,  their  eyes,  grave  enough  now,  following  the 
contours  of  the  big,  rolling  land  before  them. 

"I'll  tell  you  now  what  I  am  doing,"  Dana  began, 
leaning  back  on  one  elbow.  "I  can  write  music,  you 
know.  I  mean,  I'm  trained:  I'm  not  an  amateur. 
There  was  a  mislaid  genuis  who  lived  next  to  us,  at 
home,  when  I  was  little  —  heavens,  but  that  man 
had  gift!  His  music  was  light,  too,  and  popular: 
his  waltzes  waltzed  and  his  polkas  polked  and  his 
songs  sang  —  warm,  good  melody,  easily  under- 
stood, but  never  cheap  or  thin.  Poor  old  Sam 
Bynner!  He  ought  to  be  a  millionaire  with  three 
shows  going  on  Broadway,  and  instead  he's  an 
obscure  music  teacher  with  a  sick  wife  and  no  money 
and  no  chance.  He  took  me  in  hand  when  I  was 
a  small  boy  and  taught  me  for  love:  I  worked  with 
him,  off  and  on,  for  over  seventeen  years.  He  taught 
me  things  that  I  should  have  been  half  my  life  fum- 
bling out,  without  him.  And  he  knew.  I  am  telling 
you  this  so  that  you  will  know  I'm  well  grounded: 
that  it  isn't  presumptuous  of  me  to  try  a  big  thing. 

"Well,  do  you  remember  the  Children's  Crusade, 
back  in  the  early  part  of  the  thirteenth  century? 


70  EVER  AFTER 

That  is  my  theme.  A  boy  had  a  vision:  Christ 
appeared  to  him  and  told  him  to  gather  all  the 
children  and  make  a  crusade  to  the  Holy  Land. 
The  boy  obeyed,  and  thirty  thousand  children  set 
out  —  and  there,  with  all  their  joy  and  marching 
courage,  you  hear  the  motive  of  the  mothers  who 
let  them  go"  —  he  hummed  a  strain  —  "I  can't 
give  you  any  idea  of  it,  of  course.  It's  a  wail,  but 
submissive.  Can't  you  see  them  streaming  over  a 
hilltop,  the  thirty  thousand,  with  banners?  I  have 
kept  the  child  quality  in  it  all  through,  a  note  of 
bright  innocence,  though  I  suppose  they  were  little 
devils,  all  right,  those  thirteenth-century  boys! 
Well,  you  remember  what  happened.  The  vision 
had  said  that  the  sea  would  dry  and  let  them  cross, 
but,  when  they  came  to  the  Mediterranean,  natur- 
ally, it  didn't.  They  were  footsore  and  worn  out 
and  broken  by  this  time  —  you  get  a  frightened- 
children  quality,  and  the  mother  theme  comes  in. 
Then  the  treacherous  merchants  offer  to  take  them 
over  free,  for  the  sake  of  the  cause,  and  they  embark; 
and  then  all  who  aren't  lost  in  the  storm  are  sold 
into  slavery.  But  the  boy  who  had  the  vision  — 
this  isn't  quite  history,  but  never  mind  —  he  escapes 
from  slavery,  and  at  last  gets  to  the  Holy  Sepul- 
chre, all  alone  —  crawls  there,  dying.  You  hear  the 
mother  theme  again,  horribly  sad,  this  time.  Then 
the  vision  music  comes  in  against  it,  overcomes  it: 


EVER  AFTER  71 

Christ  appears  in  glory  and  accepts  the  crusade 
from  this  one  boy  as  from  them  all,  and  the  chil- 
dren's voices  are  heard,  ghostly  at  first,  but  presently 
in  streaming  triumph.  Ah,  I  wish  you  could  hear 
the  violins  on  that  as  I  hear  them !  Telling  it  makes 
it  sound  like  an  imitation  of  Tannhauser,  but  it  is 
so  totally  different,  musically;  the  whole  conception 
and  treatment  is  of  another  era.  And  the  spring 
youngness  of  it!  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  play  it  to  you! 
Only  it  needs  a  whole  orchestra,  of  course.  Do  you 
like  it?"  He  scarcely  needed  her  answer,  her  face 
was  so  lighted. 

"Oh,  I  love  it!" 

"I  am  so  glad!  It  isn't  literal,  of  course.  I  hate 
these  tone  poems  that  make  the  waves  dash  and  the 
horses  gallop:  you  won't  have  to  follow  any  fine 
print  on  the  programme.  It  will  simply  appear 
as  'The  Children's  Crusade  Suite.'  Those  two 
words,  children  and  crusade,  give  you  the  whole 
thing." 

"And  when  will  it  be  played?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"Who  knows?  After  I'm  dead,  probably.  You 
usually  have  to  die  to  get  recognized  in  my  pro- 
fession." 

"But  Miss  Ware  says " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have  been  unusually  fortunate.  I 
have  had  songs  published,  and  even  sung  in  concerts. 
I've  been  patted  on  the  head,  noticed  and  encour- 


72  EVER  AFTER 

aged."  A  bitter  note  sounded  in  his  voice,  and  it 
was  that  she  answered. 

"Well,  then ?" 

He  sat  up  to  face  her.  "Miss  Cuyler!  Publish- 
ing a  song  means  laying  it  on  a  counter:  if  any  one 
wants  to  go  and  buy  it,  they  can.  If  they  do,  my 
royalty  is  six  cents.  Do  you  realize  what  that 
means  to  a  man  without  a  penny  —  how  many 
copies  he  must  sell  to  pay  even  his  carfares?  I 
have  been  working  over  this  suite  for  two  years,  on 
and  off.  The  mere  printing  of  it  will  cost  hundreds 
of  dollars.  What  publisher  is  going  to  take  that 
risk?  But  suppose  some  firm  does,  and  suppose  I  get 
it  played  by  good  orchestras  —  what  then?  If  it 
earns  for  me  eighteen  dollars  a  year,  it  will  be  doing 
exceedingly  well.  I  can't  write  ragtime  or  comic 
opera,  and  there  is  absolutely  nothing  else  that  pays, 
for  an  American.  I  shall  do  a  lyric  opera  some  day, 
but  nobody  will  produce  it;  there  is  no  room,  no 
desire  for  it.  A  musician  of  my  class  is  a  beggar  for 
life."  He  thrust  that  at  her,  with  all  it  meant;  and 
his  heart  nearly  broke  at  seeing  her  so  undisturbed. 

"But  how  do  you  live  now?"  she  asked. 

"I  do  musical  reporting  for  a  daily  and  a  weekly, 
and  I  have  some  pupils,  as  few  as  possible.  I  earn 
about  twenty-seven  dollars  a  week.  And  I  am  one 
of  the  fortunate  ones!"  He  dropped  his  head  on 
his  arms  with  a  despairing  sigh.     "I  never  cared 


EVER  AFTER  73 

before.  The  joy  of  the  work  was  reward  enough; 
I  thought  I  was  willing  to  pay  the  price.  But  now" 
—  his  voice  became  almost  inaudible  —  "I  think 
perhaps  it's  too  horrible." 

Lucy's  eyes  were  on  his  rough  head,  smiling  won- 
derfully, but  she  said  nothing.  Her  serene  cheer- 
fulness on  the  way  home  left  Dana  in  utter  desolation. 
She  did  not  care  whether  he  could  marry  a  wife  or 
not.  He  was  a  fool,  a  fool,  a  fool.  He  shut  himself 
into  his  cabin  all  the  afternoon,  and  worked  as 
though  that  were  the  one  thing  on  earth  left  to  him. 

They  always  met  at  the  bridge  and  went  up  the 
same  steep  path  through  the  woods,  and  that  was 
why,  for  so  long,  no  one  saw  them;  the  stony  hilltop 
offered  nothing  to  painters.  Candace  made  fun  of 
Lucy's  laziness,  but  on  the  whole  approved  of  it. 
She  was  always  pleased  when  Lucy  showed  signs 
of  not  living  entirely  according  to  the  dictates  of 
conscience.  Idleness  was  agreeing  with  the  girl. 
She  blossomed  visibly  before  them,  showing  them  a 
daily  loveliness  of  colour  and  spirit  that  made  them 
all  turn  to  her  —  Palmer  Jacks  with  a  shrewd, 
questioning  twinkle,  little  Willing  with  round-eyed 
adoration,  Ludlam  with  quickened  energies.  To 
Ludlam,  the  girl  behind  the  fortune  was  beginning 
to  emerge,  to  take  on  personality,  and  though  his 
preference  was  for  fine  ladies  in  trailing  gowns  with 
bored,  sophisticated  eyes  and  worldly  backgrounds, 


74  EVER  AFTER 

he  recognized  that  this  youthful  heiress  had  her  own 
type  of  aristocracy  as  well  as  a  very  tangible  charm. 
And  no  doubt  she  would  pick  up  smartness  if  she 
lived  in  New  York.  So  he  dropped  the  aloofness 
with  which  he  had  been  punishing  her  since  their 
encounter  in  Dana's  cabin,  breaking  his  silence 
with  a  woodland  offering.  Lucy,  friendly  now  to 
all  the  world,  accepted  the  cluster  of  wild  straw- 
berries with  encouraging  cordiality,  and  was  sharing 
them  with  him  when  Palmer  Jacks  appeared. 
Jacks  passed  on  into  the  living-room  where  Candace 
happened  to  be  alone,  and  something  in  his  expres- 
sion made  her  ask: 

"What's  the  matter,  Palmer?" 

"Oh,  nothing."  He  rubbed  his  hand  over  fore- 
head and  eyes,  as  though  to  obliterate  the  look. 
"That's  a  mighty  nice  little  girl  out  there,  Candy," 
he  added,  with  a  nod  toward  the  veranda.  "She 
has  a  fairly  level  head,  hasn't  she?" 

"I  think  so.    Why?" 

"Doesn't  any  one  need  it?  Especially  a  girl  who 
isn't  poor,  I  understand." 

"Yes,  Lucy  isn't  poor." 

"So  Ludlam  told  me;"  Palmer  spoke  with 
significance.  "I  like  Ludlam  well  enough;  he's 
a  clever  chap.  But  it  wouldn't  be  very  safe  to  hurt 
his  vanity.     He  might  get  even." 

"You  don't  think  Lucy  is  going  to  hurt  it,  do  you  ?" 


EVER  AFTER  75 

"She  is  very  likely  to,  if  he  takes  it  into  his  head 
to  fall  in  love  with  her." 

"O  Palmer,  be  still!"  Candace  spoke  with 
affectionate  impatience.  "Nobody  is  going  to  fall 
in  love  with  anybody.     I  can't  be  bothered  with  it." 

"  Oh,  ho !     They're  not,  eh?     What  will  you  bet?  " 

"I'll  bet  that  any  one  who  does  goes  back  by  the 
next  train." 

His  handsome,  ruddy  face  looked  humorously 
wise.  "Gad!  You'll  have  to  charter  a  special," 
he  observed;  but  Candace  would  not  listen  to  him. 

"When  a  girl  is  as  truly  indifferent  to  men  as 
Lucy  is "  she  began. 

* '  Pshaw ! "  he  interrupted .  * '  There  isn't  a  woman 
living  who  is  indifferent  to  men.  Don't  talk  that 
to  me.     I  move  we  break  up  this  tete-a-tete,  myself." 

He  strolled  back  to  the  door,  and  Lucy  welcomed 
him  with  a  cordiality  that  betrayed  a  touch  of  relief. 
This  Mr.  Ludlam  had  an  inexplicable  way  of  getting 
on  one's  nerves. 

"Do  you  know  birds,  Mr.  Jacks?"  she  began. 

"I  know  a  few  down  on  Broadway,"  Palmer  mur- 
mured for  Candace's  benefit.  "What  is  it,  Miss 
Cuyler?  I  can  tell  a  humming-bird  from  a  rooster, 
if  that  is  what  you  mean." 

"Miss  Cuyler  is  so  optimistic,"  Ludlam  explained 
in  his  soft  drawl.  "If  a  paint  rag  blows  into  a  tree, 
she  sees  a  scarlet  tanager." 


76  EVER  AFTER 

"But  it  was  a  bird  —  all  red  on  the  underside," 
Lucy  insisted. 

"All  red  on  the  inside  is  the  way  I  know  them 
best,"  said  Palmer,  settling  himself  comfortably 
against  the  doorpost.  "No,  Miss  Cuyler,  I  have 
rather  a  prejudice  against  birds  at  large.  When 
I  was  young  I  was  deeply  smitten  with  a  young 
lady,  and  we  used  to  walk  in  the  woods.  And 
whenever  I  grew  particularly  interesting  and  fluent, 
or  was  leading  a  story  up  to  some  fine  climax,  she 
would  break  in  with,  'Oh,  wait  just  a  moment  — 
there's  a  yellow-hammered  bill-sticker!'  or  some- 
thing to  that  effect.  And  then  we'd  have  to  stand 
gawping  up  till  she  got  a  good  view  of  it.  It  was 
awful.  I  look  on  the  birds  as  the  real  cause  of  my 
single  and  solitary  life." 

Lucy  was  laughing,  but  Ludlam  was  annoyed. 
The  interruption  seemed  to  him  tactless,  even  a 
breach  of  good  faith,  considering  how  much  he  had 
tacitly  confided  to  Jacks  when  he  told  him  of  Lucy's 
position  in  the  world. 

"I  suspect  that  in  your  heart  you  are  grateful 
to  them,"  said  Candace  amusedly  from  behind  the 
screen  door. 

"Not  I.  By  the  way,  Candy,"  Palmer  went  on, 
moved  by  an  unfortunate  impulse  to  extend  the 
teasing  of  Ludlam,  who  hated  any  reference  to 
their  free  quarters,  "I  have  a  new  scheme  of  charita- 


EVER  AFTER  77 

ble  graft  for  you.  Put  it  up  to  your  backer  that 
there  is  no  use  providing  us  with  roofs  in  summer, 
only  to  leave  us  unsheltered  in  the  rigours  of  a  New 
York  winter.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  could  work 
her  for  apartments  all  round." 

There  was  an  awkward  pause,  though  Palmer 
was  happily  unaware  of  its  significance.  Lucy's 
eyes  were  on  a  leaf  she  was  pulling  to  bits. 

"Why  call  it  graft?"  Candace  asked  with  her 
unfailing  good  humour.  "These  cottages  are  given 
freely  and  openly;  why  pretend  that  you  get  them 
by  crookedness?" 

"Exactly!"  muttered  Ludlam  irritably. 

"Because,  my  dear  woman,  something  for  noth- 
ing leads  to  crookedness."  Jacks  was  twinkling 
wickedly,  though  he  was  careful  not  to  look  at  his 
victim.  "Now  I  am  an  able-bodied  man;  so  is 
Ludlam.  We  could  tide  over  our  times  of  financial 
depression  by  driving  cabs  or  selling  theatre  tickets, 
while  there  would  be  a  fine  living  for  either  of  us 
in  directing  ladies  three  aisles  over  to  the  left  and 
explaining  that  the  lingerie  blouses  are  on  the 
third  floor.  But  if  we  can  get  housed  for  noth- 
ing, do  you  think  we  are  going  to  provide  for 
ourselves?  Not  much!  Every  day  I  stay  here 
makes  me  more  averse  to  the  idea  of  rent. 
It's  beginning  to  seem  an  imposition  to  me. 
It's  like  getting  the  dead-head   habit  in  theatre- 


78  EVER  AFTER 

going:  you  never  again  can  pay  out  good  money 
for  a  ticket.'* 

"But,  Mr.  Jacks"  —  Lucy  spoke  with  difficulty, 
deepened  colour  in  her  cheeks  —  "if  you  can't  help 
artists,  serious  artists  who  are  doing  good  work, 
whom  can  you  help?" 

"W-e-11,"  Jacks  considered,  "I  should  say  that 
any  one  under  five  years  of  age  or  over  seventy -five 
could  receive  financial  aid  without  injury  to  the 
character.  But  I  want  it  understood,  Candy,"  he 
added  hastily,  "that  my  character  is  so  far  gone, 
no  further  aid  can  damage  it.  And  I  dare  say  the 
same  is  true  of  Ludlam.  So  if  you  do  see  your  way 
to  a  free  apartment  house " 

"Dinner  is  coming  on  the  table,"  said  Candace 
with  relief.  She  had  no  wish  to  shield  Lucy  from 
any  aspect  of  a  philanthropic  undertaking,  but 
judged  that  the  dose  had  been  enough  for  one  night. 

The  flush  lingered  in  Lucy's  face.  She  had  given 
the  thousands  necessary  to  Candace's  scheme  with 
impulsive  generosity,  and  half  her  anticipation  of 
the  summer's  happiness  had  lain  in  the  prospect 
of  seeing  difficult  lives  gladdened  under  her  eyes. 
She  had  not  dreamed  of  meeting  anything  sordid 
and  ugly.  Mr.  Jacks  spoke  half  in  jest,  of  course; 
yet  there  was  truth  in  his  tirades.  Mrs.  Dabney's 
complaints  and  Adamovitch's  ungracious  flight, 
Ludlam's  contemptuous  admission  that  he  made 


EVER  AFTER  79 

use  of  the  place,  all  lent  their  dingy  colour  to  that 
dark  word,  graft.  Willing  seemed  to  take  the  gift 
in  the  expected  spirit,  and  Dana  Malone  —  but, 
at  Dana  Malone,  Lucy's  thoughts  broke  up,  leaving 
only  a  confused  radiance.  She  stole  a  glance  at 
his  rugged  face,  and,  seeing  it  rather  sad,  could  not 
resist  sending  a  little  smile  to  cheer  it.  The  quick, 
glorifying  smile  that  answered  caught  at  her  breath 
like  a  sudden  embrace.  She  dared  not  look  toward 
that  response  again;  but,  all  the  evening,  she  saw 
nothing  else. 

It  was  inevitable  that  the  morning  meetings  at 
the  bridge  should  be  discovered;  and  the  discoverer, 
unfortunately,  was  Ludlam.  He  had  brought  Lucy 
further  offerings  of  fruit  and  flowers,  and  had  sup- 
posed that  he  was  making  rapid  progress;  for  the 
heiress  smiled  on  him  so  pleasantly,  no  one  could 
have  suspected  how  little  she  heard  of  his  abundant 
conversation.  He  was  in  a  high  state  of  com- 
placence, and  was  mentally  designing  and  decorating 
the  studio  of  his  affluent  future  at  the  very  moment 
when  a  turn  of  the  road  along  which  he  was  strolling 
brought  his  dreams  to  an  end.  Lucy  and  Dana  were 
leaning  over  the  rail  of  the  little  bridge,  and,  though 
their  images  in  the  pool  beneath  were  still  looking 
up  in  unbroken  propriety,  no  jealous  watcher  could 
miss  the  meaning  of  the  scene.  Their  at-homeness 
together,  in   contrast    to    the    formal  courtesy  of 


80  EVER  AFTER 

their  public  meetings,  stung  Ludlam  with  a  sense 
of  having  been  made  a  fool  of.  He  was  not  in  love 
with  her,  and,  in  sight  of  their  abounding  happiness, 
he  might  have  forgiven;  but,  though  he  had  a  sensi- 
tive appreciation  of  beauty  in  art  or  nature,  he  had 
been  left  stone-blind  to  beauty  of  action.  For 
several  days  he  watched,  seeing  always  the  same 
meeting.  Then,  one  shining  morning,  when  Lucy 
came  running  out,  half  an  hour  after  the  class  had 
gone  forth,  she  found  him  sketching  on  the  broad 
slope  just  below  the  veranda. 

"Will  you  see  if  you  like  this,  Miss  Cuyler?" 
he  asked  with  his  flattering  deference. 

The  sketch,  rough  though  it  was,  had  wonderfully 
caught  the  relation  here  between  the  mighty  arch 
of  the  sky  and  the  land  it  encompassed:  heaven  was 
truly  the  throne  and  the  earth  its  footstool.  Lucy's 
thrilled  enthusiasm  might  have  softened  him 
if  he  had  had  any  doubts  about  the  value  of  his 
work. 

"So  good  of  you,"  he  said,  touching  the  canvas 
with  swift,  sure  strokes.  "I  think  I  shall  make 
something  out  of  it.  This  is  only  a  preliminary 
study,  of  course.  Would  you  mind  sitting  down  for 
a  moment?  I  want  you  to  look  at  it  when  it  is 
further  along." 

Lucy,  already  late,  was  in  a  fever  to  be  off.  But 
there  was  no  ostensible  errand  to  call  her;  she  had 


EVER  AFTER  81 

come  out  without  even  a  paint  brush  that  might 
serve  as  an  excuse.  So  she  reluctantly  sat  down, 
and  called  silent  messages  of  reassurance  to  Dana, 
waiting  far  below  at  the  bridge. 

"I  should  think  it  would  try  you  to  have  people 
about  when  you  are  working,"  her  impatience  goaded 
her  into  saying.  "I  can't  bear  it  when  I  am  trying 
to  sketch." 

"We  have  to  get  used  to  that,"  he  assured  her, 
and  the  grace  with  which  he  sat  his  stool,  the  fluent 
motions  of  his  long  arm,  betrayed  that  an  audience 
might  not  be  wholly  a  penance.  "We  painters 
have  to  get  used  to  a  great  many  difficult  things, 
Miss  Cuyler.  But  it  is  not  so  hard  a  career  as  a 
musician's;  we  at  least  can  hope  for  fortune  as  well 
as  fame.  As  Malone  says,  a  serious  musician  in 
this  country  can  scarcely  support  himself  unless  he 
gives  the  best  part  of  his  day  to  teaching,  or  has  the 
technique  for  public  performance.  And  your  born 
composer  seldom  has  this  technique." 

"It  is  very  hard,"  said  Lucy  vaguely,  wondering 
if  a  moving  figure,  far  below,  could  be  Dana. 

"Now,  in  a  few  years,  I  shall  be  a  fairly  rich  man 
—  for  an  artist,"  Ludlam  went  on;  "while  Malone 
is  a  beggar  for  life  unless  he  marries  for  money.  As 
he  himself  says,  that  is  the  only  future  open  to 
him."  He  paused,  bending  close  to  the  canvas  for 
a  fine  touch,  then  leaning  far  back  on  his  stool  to 


82  EVER  AFTER 

judge  the  effect.  "We  were  discussing  this  the  night 
before  you  came,"  he  added. 

It  was  not  literally  a  lie.  Candace,  listening  to 
their  discussion,  had  humorously  offered  a  rich  wife 
as  a  solution,  and  Dana  had  laughed  a  careless 
assent.  Lucy,  seated  in  the  grass  with  her  arms 
about  her  knees,  made  no  answer  at  all.  Whether 
she  were  struck  or  merely  bored,  he  had  no  means 
of  knowing.  The  one  sign  vouchsafed  was  that, 
when  he  presently  let  her  go,  she  did  not  take  the 
direction  of  the  bridge;  and  this  might  be  merely 
caution.  Yet  he  knew,  instinctively,  without  signs, 
that  his  blow  had  not  wholly  missed.  He  watched 
her  go  with  a  small,  vindictive  smile  behind  his 
eyelids;  then,  as  the  morning  light  was  flattening  out 
the  landscape,  he  gathered  up  his  belongings  and 
went  down  the  hill  with  the  stroll  of  one  well  satisfied 
with  his  morning's  work.  Across  the  back  of  the 
sketch  he  wrote  the  name  under  which  the  finished 
picture  was  destined  to  win  for  him  fame  and  for- 
tune —  "The  Heavens  Declare  the  Glory  of  God." 

Lucy  was  first  merely  repelled;  then  frightened, 
then  sorely  hurt.  That  she  might  be  "married  for 
her  money"  was  the  bugbear  that  a  well-meaning 
aunt  had  conscientiously  held  up  to  her  for  the  past 
three  years.  It  always  followed  a  gentle  prelimi- 
nary to  the  effect  that  she  could  not  be  expected  to 
understand  men.     The  fine  gradations  of  such  mar- 


EVER  AFTER  83 

riages,  the  possible  mixture  of  motives  and  induce- 
ments, were  all  unknown  to  her:  either  a  man  loved, 
or  he  coldly,  basely,  married  for  money.  Against 
her  passionate  faith  in  Dana  rose  the  chilling  facts 
that  she  had  known  him  only  a  few  weeks,  and  that 
she  could  not  be  expected  to  understand  men. 
That  Ludlam  might  have  spoken  with  a  motive  did 
not  occur  to  her,  and,  coming  on  top  of  Dana's 
recognized  speeches,  the  quoted  words  carried  truth. 
She  forgot  all  about  Ludlam  before  the  leaden 
knowledge  of  what  Dana  had  publicly  admitted, 
the  night  before  she  came.  She  had  innocently 
supposed  that  he  did  not  know  about  her  money; 
but  she  was  only  an  ignorant  girl,  with  no  one  to 
warn  or  guide  her.     Perhaps  she  had  been  a  fool. 

She  did  not  go  near  the  bridge,  and  Dana,  whose 
impatience  had  taken  him  to  the  foot  of  the  hill,  had 
seen  her  up  there,  a  blue  dot  in  the  grass  beside 
Ludlam,  and  so  would  make  no  advances  when  the 
miserable  day  ended  and  the  dinner  hour  brought 
them  together.  He  was  at  the  bridge  again  the 
next  morning,  and  the  next,  but  only  one  forlorn 
image  stared  up  at  him  from  the  pool.  Lucy  had 
returned  to  the  class,  and  was  working  all  day  long. 
For  three  days  they  did  not  exchange  one  word. 

On  the  fourth  day,  late  in  the  afternoon,  Candace 
firmly  took  away  Lucy's  brushes. 

"Go  for  a  walk,"  she  commanded.     "You  are 


84  EVER  AFTER 

working  yourself  to  death  —  you're  getting  a  little 
lost-cat  look  about  your  chin.  The  girls  are  playing 
baseball,  if  you  want  exercise." 

Lucy  wished  neither  exercise  nor  company,  and 
she  slipped  away  in  another  direction.  A  brook 
on  the  edge  of  the  woodland  ran  and  tumbled  before 
her  like  some  little  shining  creature  trying  to  win 
a  smile;  but  she  saw  only  her  misery.  If  Dana 
had  really  loved  her,  he  would  not  have  let  her 
go  like  this: he  would  have  insisted  on  seeing  her, 
gloriously  righted  himself.  Lucy  believed  that 
only  a  fundamental  indifference  could  explain 
his  passivity,  and  with  all  her  crushed  heart  she 
wished  herself  lying  face  down  in  the  careless 
water. 

The  brook  frolicked  as  though  it  were  leading  her 
on  to  some  good  fortune,  but,  turning  a  sharp  corner, 
it  brought  her  upon  a  huddled  image  of  dejection 
that  startled  her  own  trouble  out  of  sight.  Willing 
sat  at  the  foot  of  a  bank,  down  which  he  obviously 
had  tumbled,  studying  the  two  pieces  of  his  broken 
crutch.  His  happy  relief  at  sight  of  her  nearly 
made  her  cry. 

"O  Miss  Cuyler!  Now  isn't  this  too  wonder- 
ful?" he  burst  out.  "No,  I'm  not  hurt  in  the  least, 
but  just  look  at  my  crutch!  And  there  isn't  a  good 
stick  in  sight.  I  was  going  to  set  out  on  my  hands 
and  knees  that  very  moment,  and  then  you  came! 


EVER  AFTER  85 

Isn't  that  just  my  luck?  Do  you  think  you  could 
find  me  a  stick?  " 

She  was  already  looking.  "But  will  a  stick  be 
enough?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I  can  manage,"  he  assured  her  cheerily. 
"Perhaps  two  sticks  would  be  better,  though. 
I  can  mend  this  crutch  all  right,  once  I  get  back 
to  my  house.  I  declare,  I  never  was  so  glad  to  see 
any  one  in  my  life.  It  was  just  like  a  miracle,  to 
look  up  and  find  you  there." 

"Oh,  I  know!"  Lucy  had  caught  his  animation. 
"I  will  bring  you  the  horse,  and  you  can  ride  home. 
He  is  the  gentlest  old  creature  —  would  you  mind?" 

"I  think  that  would  be  too  lovely  for  words! 
Of  course,  I  didn't  mind  hobbling  if  I  had  to  —  but 
that  would  be  perfect.  Can't  you  tell  some  one  else 
to  bring  him?  Malone  is  awfully  obliging  —  he'd 
do  it." 

"But  the  horse  is  right  up  here  a  little  way," 
said  Lucy  quickly.  "I  should  love  to  do  it."  And 
she  hurried  off.  The  errand  had  brought  a  momen- 
tary respite  from  pain. 

A  string  hung  about  the  old  beast's  neck,  left 
there  by  the  girls,  who  indiscriminately  rode  and 
sketched  him,  and  he  followed  his  guide  as  willingly 
as  though  he  recognized  the  debt  he  owed  her. 
Lucy  brought  him  up  to  a  stone  and  made  Willing 
use   her    shoulder   until    he   was  safely    mounted. 


86  EVER  AFTER 

Then  she  took  the  leading  string,  and  they  went 
slowly  up  by  way  of  the  open  meadow.  Willing's 
relief  bubbled  over  in  conversation,  as  cheerfully 
unmodulated  as  a  child's. 

"I  feel  just  like  Joan  of  Arc,"  he  declared.  "  I 
suppose  it's  the  white  horse.  Or  like  —  who  was 
it  that  had  an  angel  go  in  front  of  him  to  show  the 
way?  Oh,  I  guess  I'm  thinking  of  the  Sherman 
monument  —  you  know,  at  the  entrance  to  the  Park. 
Oh,  you  don't  live  in  New  York,  do  you?  But  you 
must  come  there  sometimes:  every  one  does.  I  wish 
you'd  visit  my  studio,  next  time  you're  there.  You 
know  I'm  a  decorator,  but  I  do  pottery  on  the  side. 
I'd  love  to  know  what  you  thought  of  my  pottery. 
Miss  Ware  has  been  perfectly  lovely  about  it;  she 
has  got  me  no  end  of  orders.  People  do  seem 
to  like  it.  Dear  me,  this  is  comfortable.  I 
hope  you  aren't  getting  tired?  This  is  another 
lesson  for  me  against  worrying.  I  used  to 
worry  about  my  old  age;  but  I  never  shall  any 
more.  Some  one  will  give  me  a  cottage  and  bring 
me  a  horse." 

Lucy  looked  up  with  a  troubled  forehead.  "One 
must  not  be  improvident,"  she  ventured. 

"Well,  that's  what  I  used  to  think.  But  things 
do  come  to  me,  Miss  Cuyler  —  just  like  this  cabin. 
Why  not  recognize  it  and  be  happy?" 

She  shook  her  head.     "So  it  has  hurt  you,  too," 


EVER  AFTER  87 

she  said,  but  so  low  that  he  did  not  hear.  He  had 
caught  sight  of  the  baseball  game. 

"There  are  all  those  girls,"  he  exclaimed.  "What 
will  they  think  of  us?"  But  he  laughed,  evidently 
not  much  caring. 

The  girls  were  too  absorbed  in  their  game  to 
notice  anything  else,  but  Palmer  Jacks  stared  from 
his  window,  then  came  to  his  door  for  a  better  look. 

"I  suppose  he  thinks  you're  just  giving  me  a  ride 
for  fun,"  Willing  laughed.  "I  hope  I'll  have  a 
chance  to  do  you  a  good  turn  some  day,  Miss  Cuyler. 
I'd  do  anything  for  you.  I  guess  most  of  us  would. 
Hasn't  it  been  a  happy  time,  up  here?  We'll  miss 
Malone,  won't  we!" 

The  horse  stopped,  surprised  at  the  jerk  on  his 
string  halter. 

"Miss  him?"  Lucy  stammered.  "Is  he  — 
going?" 

"Why,  didn't  you  know?  Oh,  dear,  maybe  it's 
a  secret.  I  heard  him  talking  to  Miss  Ware  about 
it  after  lunch.  They  must  have  seen  I  was  right 
there.  I'm  sorry  if  I  oughtn't  to  have  told, 
but " 

"When  is  he  going?"  Lucy's  voice  was  hoarse 
and  tremulous,  but  Willing  noticed  nothing. 

"On  the  early  train  in  the  morning.  He  said 
something  about  work  —  a  newspaper  wanting  him, 
or   something.     I   suppose   he'll   say   good-bye   at 


88  EVER  AFTER 

dinner.  Maybe  he  hates  saying  good-bye,  though. 
I  knew  a  fellow  who  was  like  that  —  he  wouldn't 
say  good-bye  to  his  own  mother  when  he  was  going 
out  to  South  Africa.  But,  then,  she  had  heart 
disease:  that  may  have  had  something  to  do  with  it. 
Malone  is  a  nice  fellow,  isn't  he  —  he's  so  kind. 
Well,  here  we  are.  I  just  don't  know  how  to  thank 
you.  There's  a  long  stick  behind  the  door:  if  you'll 
get  me  that  I  shall  be  all  right.  That's  it.  I  declare, 
I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  you." 

She  gave  him  a  wan  little  smile.  "You  have," 
was  her  puzzling  answer  as  she  turned  away. 
Willing  thought  about  it  for  several  minutes 
as  he  got  out  his  tools  and  prepared  to  mend  his 
crutch. 

"I  suppose  she  means  because  I'm  so  cheerful," 
he  concluded  aloud.  "They're  always  saying  that 
at  the  boarding-house  —  that  I'm  so  cheerful, 
I  do  them  good.  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  be 
cheerful,  with  my  luck.  To  think  of  her  turning  up 
in  that  out-of-the-way  place  just  that  particular 
minute!     Didyoueyerf" 

Lucy  went  slowly  along  the  edge  of  the  woodland, 
still  leading  the  old  horse.  She  wanted  to  think  it 
all  out,  very  clearly  and  reasonably,  but  the  con- 
fusion of  great  disaster  seemed  to  be  deafening  her 
ears  and  blinding  her  eyes.  It  was  like  trying  to 
sit  still  and  think  in  the  panic  of  shipwreck.     She 


EVER  AFTER  89 

could  only  act,  blindly,  instinctively,  as  men  clutch 
at  spars  before  the  engulfing  sea. 

The  placid  summer  afternoon  was  fading,  and, 
though  the  fields  were  still  golden,  the  woods  looked 
dusky.  A  second  time,  Lucy  stole  noiselessly 
along  the  path  that  led  to  Dana's  cabin.  Through 
the  window  she  saw  him  sitting  idly  before  the  piano, 
but  she  came  to  the  very  door  without  his  hearing 
her.  He  had  been  studying  a  sheet  of  manuscript 
music,  set  up  before  him,  but  evidently  his  sombre 
thoughts  had  wandered  far  from  work.  The  droop 
of  his  head  and  shoulders  made  her  gasp  with  love 
and  pity. 

Perhaps  he  heard.  He  turned  a  startled  face, 
and  stared  as  though  he  could  not  believe. 

"Lucy!"  he  stammered.     "Lucy!" 

She  did  not  know  what  to  say  or  do  under  his 
staring,  so  she  smiled,  a  frightened,  pleading,  breath- 
less smile  that  struck  away  the  bewilderment  that 
held  him  and  brought  him  across  to  her  in  two 
strides.  He  caught  her  up  bodily  into  his  arms, 
pressing  her  to  him  again  and  again,  kissing  the 
curve  of  her  cheek,  her  forehead,  her  closed  eyes 
and  passive  lips.  Then  he  dropped  down  on  his 
knees  before  her,  burying  his  face  in  her  hands. 

"Oh,  forgive  me!"  he  muttered.  "My  dear, 
dear  love,  forgive  me!" 

She   crouched   down   on   the   floor  beside   him, 


90  EVER  AFTER 

pressing  her  face  into  his  coat,  twining  her  arms 
tightly  about  his  neck. 

"You  do  love  me,"  she  sobbed  gladly.  "Oh, 
you  do  love  me,  Dana!" 

"Love  you,  Lucy?  I'm  half  dead  with  loving 
you!  But  what  right  has  a  beggar  like  me?  I 
thought  you  saw  it,  too,  and  I  tried  to  be  glad  that 

you  threw  me  over O  Lucy,  it  has  been  so 

horrible!"  The  catch  in  his  voice  echoed  her  sob. 
They  clung  to  each  other  as  though  disaster  were 
again  upon  them. 

"But  you  do  love  me,"  she  repeated,  as  though 
to  reassure  him. 

"Love  you,  my  sweetheart!  If  that  were  all! 
How  can  I  make  you  understand  how  poor  I  am, 
how  hopelessly  poor?  Lucy,  I  couldn't  hire  the 
cheapest  kind  of  a  flat  for  you,  I  couldn't  pay  one 
rough  servant  to  wait  on  you;  and  it's  going  to  be 
so  for  years  to  come.  Even  if  I  gave  up  all  idea  of 
writing  music,  I  couldn't  earn  these  for  you  within 
—  oh,  it's  too  humiliating!" 

"But  I  have  some  money,"  she  whispered.  He 
laughed  a  little. 

"I  couldn't  come  and  live  on  your  poor  little 
money,  dear  girl !  And  even  if  I  were  willing  to  — 
marriage  takes  so  much.  You  have  been  living 
with  other  people,  you  see.  Suppose  you  had  to 
pay  rent  for  a  flat " 


EVER  AFTER  91 

"But  I  have  a  house,"  the  smothered  voice  per- 
sisted. "I  have  two  houses,  Dana.  And  the  one 
in  town  has  a  music  room  looking  over  the  Back 
Bay  —  such  a  lovely  big  room !  And  the  other  house 
has  a  great,  wonderful  seacoast,  all  its  own,  and 
a  garden.  O  Dana,  you  would  love  my  garden. 
The  little  house  in  Milton  is  mine  too;  Cousin 
Susie  was  living  with  me.  So,  you  see,  we  needn't 
worry  about  flats,  need  we?" 

He  had  drawn  away  from  her,  risen  slowly  to  his 
feet.     The  gravity  of  his  face  frightened  her. 

"You  mean  that  you  are  rich?" 

"Not  dreadfully  rich,"  she  pleaded.  "Not  — 
millions  and  millions.  But  we  needn't  think  about 
money,    that's    all,    Dana.       And    even    if    I  am 

rich "     Her  voice  failed  her  for  sheer  terror 

of  the  barrier  that  every  word  might  be  raising  be- 
tween them. 

But  the  soul  of  Dana  Malone  knew  neither  con- 
ventionality nor  pretence.  He  threw  up  his  arms 
with  a  shout  of  joy.  "To  think  of  that!"  he  cried. 
Then  his  arms  dropped,  and  he  stared  down  at  her 
with  awed  intensity. 

"What  wonderful  luck!"  he  uttered  solemnly. 
"What  astounding,  wonderful  luck!" 

After  dinner  that  night  —  a  strange,  oblivious 
pretence  of  dinner  —  they  drew  Candace  into  the 


92  EVER  AFTER 

empty  workroom.  The  world's  attitude  had  by 
this  time  thrust  itself  upon  Dana's  recognition,  and 
he  told  the  news  gravely,  braced  for  her  dismay. 
She  sank  down  on  the  platform,  facing  them  in 
bewildered  reproach. 

"O  my  children,"  she  exclaimed,  "how  did 
this  happen?" 

"How  could  it  help  happening?"  Dana  returned. 
Lucy  curled  down  against  her  friend,  a  hand  on  her 
knee. 

"It  had  to  be,"  she  whispered. 

"But  your  people!"  Candace  exploded.  "Dana, 
a  girl  in  Lucy's  position  can't  be  just  married  up 
like  some  little  art  student.  It  is  an  alliance  you're 
proposing  to  make,  you " 

"Wild  Westerner  without  a  cent  to  his  name," 
he  finished  for  her.  "  Candy,  if  I  hadn't  something 
I  considered  real  to  offer  Lucy  —  besides  what 
I  feel  —  I  should  consider  myself  a  hound  if  I 
looked  at  her.  But  don't  you  think  that  in  the 
long  run,  after  years  of  work,  my  music  will  balance 
her  money  and  —  and  position,  or  whatever  you 
call  it?" 

"So  much  more  than  balance  it?"  Lucy  breathed 
at  her  shoulder. 

"But  it  isn't  the  long  run  we  are  facing."  Can- 
dace  firmly  put  away  Lucy's  cajoling  hand,  then 
weakly  left  her  own  on  the  girl's  knee.     "It's  the 


EVER  AFTER  93 

short  run  that  we  have  to  consider.  What  are 
Lucy's  people  going  to  say  to  me?"  There  was 
a  gleam  of  rueful  humour  through  the  last  words, 
and  they  brightened  before  it. 

"There  isn't  anybody  who  will  take  it  very  hard," 
Lucy  urged.  "And  when  they  realize  Dana's 
genius " 

"And  besides,"  he  broke  in,  "honestly  and 
truly,  Candy,  do  you  think  any  one  could 
know  me  and  go  on  believing  that  I  was  a  fortune 
hunter?  " 

She  dropped  her  eyes  from  his  straight,  dark, 
eager  glance  with  a  sigh  of  reluctant  honesty. 

"No,  I  don't,"  she  admitted.  In  an  instant  he, 
too,  was  down  on  the  platform  beside  her.  Their 
arms  met  about  her  shoulders. 

"O  Candy,  be  good  to  us!"  they  cried. 

She  was  good  to  them,  of  course.  She  even 
grew  genial  over  the  situation  before  their  long 
conference  was  over.  When,  at  last,  they  left  her, 
she  had  forgotten  the  worldly  difficulties,  and  sat 
smiling  to  herself  in  the  dark  at  the  combination 
they  made.  Not  till  the  glow  of  their  fervour 
had  died  away  did  she  realize  all  the  elements 
of  that  combination.  Then  for  a  startled 
moment  she  confronted  Lucy  and  Dana  as 
they  were  in  cool  reality,  shorn  of  the  glamour 
of    infinite    concession    that     their     love      shed 


94  EVER  AFTER 

about  them.  A  dismayed  exclamation,  pitying 
and  yet  humorous,  brought  her  hands  over  her 
face. 

"And  they  haven't  learned  to  laugh  yet,"  she 
murmured.  "Oh,  poor  little  children,  they  can't 
even  laugh!" 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

"Lucy,  Lucy!  I  can't  wait!"  Dana  spoke  with 
a  laugh  and  a  tightening  of  the  arm  that  held  his 
wife.  "At  first  you  will  see  a  big,  brown  land, 
very  dusty  and  withery  if  the  fall  rains  haven't 
begun,  and  you'll  think  it  hasn't  trees  enough,  and 
you'll  miss  the  natural  grass,  and  you'll  want  more 
rivers,  and  more  finish  to  things  —  it's  rough  on  the 
edges.  And  then  presently  you  will  begin  to  get  it, 
the  charm,  the  feeling,  the  smell  of  it  —  the  great, 
brown  backs  of  the  foothills,  old  Tamalpais  cut- 
ting into  blue,  blue  sky  —  the  bay,  and  the 
gardens  all  heaped  up  and  running  over  —  oh,  my 
dear!" 

She  smiled  up  at  him,  looking  like  a  sleepy  and 
much  loved  little  girl  in  her  deep  content. 

"It  is  so  beautiful  that  I  never  went  before," 
she  said  murmurously. 

"I  couldn't  bear  it  if  you  had!  Outsiders  see  it 
like  Cook's  tourists  doing  a  cathedral;  but  you're 
going  with  a  true  believer  and  a  devout  heart.  Lucy, 
how  do  you  pronounce  Los  A-n-g-e-1-e-s?" 

She  gave  it  the  hard  g  and  the  "lees"  ending  of 

95 


96  EVER  AFTER 

the  Eastern  resident,  and  he  came  down  on  her 
with  joyous  severity. 

"Never  let  me  hear  that  sound  from  your  lips 
again.  You  want  to  say  it  just  as  you  say '  angelus,' 
soft  g  and  all.  It  isn't  correct,  of  course  —  neither 
way  is  correct;  but  it's  native,  it's  the  old  Calif ornian 
way.  The  other  is  parvenu.  Do  look  off  there! 
Had  you  any  idea. the  desert  was  so  beautiful?  Oh, 
this  West!" 

Their  train  lay  like  a  tiny  dark  snake  in  a  vast 
waste  of  mottled  desert,  gray-green  and  tawny. 
Sage,  sand  and  alkali  spread  unbroken  to  the  far 
horizon,  drenched  with  gold  and  glow  in  the  trans- 
forming light  of  late  afternoon.  The  strange  land, 
forbidding  and  desolate  under  the  glaring  noon,  had 
come  into  its  daily  hour  of  magic  loveliness.  Other 
passengers  had  gone  forward  to  inspect  the  burned 
culvert  that  held  them,  so  for  the  moment  they 
had  the  observation  vestibule  —  back  platform  of 
less  luxurious  days  —  to  themselves.  The  great 
stillness,  the  quivering  tide  of  light,  set  Dana's 
Western  blood  racing. 

"I've  got  to  do  something  about  it,"  he  exclaimed 
from  his  full  heart. 

Lucy,  beauty  drugged  and  drifting,  curled  closer 
against  him. 

"Write  lovely  music,"  she  said. 

"That  isn't  half  enough.    I  want  to  go  about  the 


EVER  AFTER  97 

earth  helping  other  people  to  marry  —  people  who 
love  each  other  like  this." 

"0  Dana,  do  you  suppose  they  really  do?" 

"Yes,  little  Lucy,  I  think  it  is  very  likely.  And 
sometimes  they  can't  have  it.  Some  people  can't 
have  much  of  anything,  and  I  get  all  this!  Doesn't 
that  make  you  sit  up  and  wonder?" 

Nothing,  at  that  moment,  could  make  Lucy  sit 
up  or  wonder,  or  draw  from  her  anything  but  a 
caressing  murmur,  and  Dana  fell  silent,  staring  with 
astonished  intentness  at  his  lot. 

"If  I  were  rich,  you  know  what?"  he  began  sud- 
denly, in  the  familiar  phrase  of  years. 

"You  are  rich."  The  calm  statement  drew  from 
him  a  startled  laugh. 

"I?"  It  proved  overwhelming:  he  could  not 
go  on.  All  that  chaotic  summer  he  had  rejoiced 
in  Lucy's  money  as  the  amazing  piece  of  good  luck 
that  would  allow  him  to  marry  her  and  to  make 
lovely  music;  and  during  the  five  days  since  he  had 
carried  her  off,  the  abundant  money  in  his  pockets 
had  been  a  pleasant,  though  somewhat  remote, 
consciousness.  He  enjoyed  it  as  he  enjoyed  his 
excellent  clothes,  with  little  direct  attention  to  spare 
for  it.  That  Lucy's  husband  might  be  considered 
a  rich  man,  with  a  rich  man's  powers  and  responsi- 
bilities, was  a  suggestion  almost  terrifying.  Presently 
he  protested. 


98  EVER  AFTER 

"It's  all  yours.     I  am  only  prince  consort." 

"No,  sir.  By  a  special  Act  of  Parliament,  they 
ascended  the  throne  together  and  reigned  as  Dana 
and  Lucy  for  many  happy  and  prosperous  years." 

"What  were  the  chief  events  of  their  reign?"  he 
asked  with  the  air  of  a  schoolmaster.  The  little 
games  they  played  were  her  dear  delight.  Until 
Candace  had  discovered  her,  no  one  had  ever 
dreamed  that  Lucy  could  be  mischievous  and 
merry. 

"Many  notable  reforms  were  inaugurated,"  she 
took  it  up.  "No  one  ever  hurt  anybody.  There 
were  no  lost  puppies,  or  frightened  children,  or  poor 
men  out  of  work,  or  bewildered  foreigners  with 
bundles  who  get  on  wrong  trains  and  the  conductors 
are  cross  to  them  and  they  haven't  money  for  another 
fare  and  they  can't  understand  —  0  Dana,  doesn't 
that  nearly  kill  you?  And  all  true  lovers  were 
married  and  were  almost  as  happy  as  their  beloved 
sovereigns." 

"A  very  good  recitation,  Miss  Lucy.  But 
you  have  left  out  the  wonderful  development  of 
music  during  this  period.  Musical  fellowships  were 
founded,  don't  you  remember?  And  all  genuine 
talent  got  a  generous  public  hearing.  Ah,  those 
were  the  halcyon  days!" 

"Silly!"  observed  Lucy,  and  they  laughed,  then 
slipped  away  from  each  other  as  fellow  passengers 


EVER  AFTER  99 

were  heard  returning.  Dana  rose  and  leaned  casu- 
ally against  the  rail. 

"You  remember  the  last  time  we  crossed,  Lucy, 
what  a  sandstorm  there  was  about  here?"  he  was 
saying  as  their  platform  was  invaded.  Her  eye- 
brows reproached  him  for  the  deception  even  while 
her  lips  betrayed  unlawful  enjoyment.  "Suppose 
we  go  forward  and  see  what  the  prospects  are," 
he  added  hastily,  as  she  refused  to  play  up  to  him. 

"They  say  we're  going  to  stay  here  all  night," 
a  passenger  volunteered  as  they  moved  away. 
An  overheard,  "I  thought  they  were  bride  and 
groom ! "  gave  them  an  absurd  delight.  Dana  swung 
his  wife  to  the  ground,  then  struck  his  chest  a 
resounding  blow. 

"I  want  to  strut,"  he  confided. 

"You  do,  dear,"  said  Lucy,  and  they  laughed 
until  it  was  necessary  to  sit  down  on  the  sandy  bank 
for  breath.  The  gayety  of  love,  the  godlike  merri- 
ment of  its  lighter  moments,  was  still  threatening 
their  decorum  as  they  passed  the  group  gathered 
about  the  engine.  They  paid  scant  attention  to 
the  burned  culvert,  except  to  wonder  that  a  little 
dry  gulley,  so  easily  crossed  by  them,  should  be 
impassable  to  a  great,  clever  train. 

"You  know,  Lucy,  there  is  something  in  that 
fellowships  idea,"  Dana  presently  began,  as  they 
strolled  on  toward  the  flaming  West. 


100  EVER  AFTER 

"Music  fellowships?" 

"Yes:  for  men  of  genuine  talent  —  to  give  them 
a  decent  chance  to  do  original  work.  And  fine  pub- 
lic hearings  arranged  for  them.  We  really  could 
do  that,  you  and  I  together.  It  would  mean  loads 
of  work  and  money,  but  we  could  get  big  people 
interested,  or  work  through  one  of  the  composers' 
associations.  It  would  be  rather  fine!  Do  you 
know  that  the  man  who  wrote  '  Carmen'  committed 
suicide,  through  discouragement  and  hunger?  Why, 
Schubert  never  had  a  chance  to  hear  some  of  his 
own  greatest  orchestral  pieces:  and  it  was  over 
forty  years  before  the  'Unfinished'  symphony  was 
even  printed.  It  is  so  brutal,  the  way  the  world 
leaves  them  to  starve  to  death,  and  then  goes  mad 
over  their  works.  Or  else  it  never  discovers  them  at 
all,  like  poor  old  Sam  Bynner,  out  in  California. 
I've  told  you  about  him:  how  he  taught  me  for 
love  all  those  years.  He  had  born  gift,  in  his  line; 
but  he  couldn't  get  heard.  Well,  he  needed  help. 
Lucy,  there  is  a  bully  chance  for  us  —  to  stand  by 
and  help  genius,  to  make  people  listen!  O,  my 
child!" 

"Dana!    What  a  wonderful  idea!" 

To  their  excited  spirits  the  plan  seemed  as  simple 
as  it  was  great.  They  fell  upon  it  with  pencil  and 
paper,  developing  its  possibilities,  noting  down  the 
men  whose  judgment  and  influence  must  help,  the 


EVER  AFTER  101 

societies  that  might  cooperate,  and  handing  over 
to  it  their  thousands  with  a  lavishness  that  should 
have  brought  Grandfather  Cuyler  scurrying  back 
to  earth;  but  only  the  loving  and  giving  spirit  of 
Great  Aunt  Betty  manifested  itself.  Lucy's  face 
was  aglow.  They  felt  as  though  they  had  unlocked 
the  grim  gate  between  genius  and  the  blundering  world 
when  at  last  they  came  back  to  the  land  about  them. 

In  their  absorption,  they  had  not  observed  that 
the  ground  under  their  feet  rose  and  then  gradually 
fell  again,  putting  a  scarcely  noticeable  mound 
between  them  and  the  helpless  train;  and  so  a  big 
moment  was  prepared  for  them.  For  suddenly 
they  found  themselves  standing  alone  in  the  desert. 
North,  south,  east,  and  west  it  rolled  up  to  the 
horizon  rim,  apparently  unbroken,  rigidly  still  and 
silent.  Not  a  sage  leaf  fluttered  nor  an  insect 
called:  there  was  not  even  the  shadow  of  a  bird  to 
move  over  the  waste.  The  last  sunbeams,  streaming 
level  from  the  west,  spread  a  gold  and  amethyst  en- 
chantment: the  earth  was  turned  to  a  great  jewel 
dipped  in  yellow  wine,  and  the  breath  of  the  desert, 
dry,  sunned  and  aromatic,  was  the  wine's  heady 
fragrance.  They  stood  with  clinging  hands  and 
lifted  faces,  like  Adam  and  Eve  newly  created, 
wondering  and  exultant. 

The  sun  vanished  and  the  colours  began  to  fade. 
Dana  turned  solemn  eyes  on  his  wife. 


102  EVER  AFTER 

"We  ought  to  have  died,  right  then,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  assented;  but  her  hand  in  his  confided 
that  she  was  glad  they  had  not. 

They  turned  back  faintly  saddened  at  the  change. 
The  glamour  had  died  with  the  sunlight,  and 
already  the  blank  face  of  the  desert  showed  harsh 
and  repellent.  A  sudden  desire  for  the  train  and 
their  own  safe  little  shut-in  drawing-room,  for  lights 
and  books  and  the  sound  of  human  voices,  made 
them  hasten  up  the  slope  that  hid  the  scene  of 
their  delay.  Perhaps  a  subconscious  memory  of  the 
whistles  which  their  outer  ears  had  ignored  was 
coming  to  them,  for  presently  they  ran,  smiling  at 
themselves,  but  with  worried  eyes. 

"There  is  really  —  nothing  —  to  hurry  about," 
Lucy  panted. 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Dana,  quickening  his  pace. 

Their  pause  at  the  top  had  the  shocked  suddenness 
of  a  cry  or  a  fall.  For  a  dreadful  moment  they  stood 
blankly  still,  trying  not  to  believe  their  eyes.  Below 
them  they  saw  the  burned  culvert,  the  trodden  sand 
where  the  passengers  had  gathered,  but,  far  away 
to  the  east,  a  receding  line  of  black  stood  for  their 
train.  This  time  they  were  truly  alone  in  the  desert; 
and  the  discovery  was  not  exalting. 

Dana  instinctively  flung  out  a  shout  and  waved 
his  hat.  Then  they  sat  down  on  the  railway  ties, 
conscious  of  weak  knees. 


EVER  AFTER  103 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that!"  he  muttered. 

"And  they  said  they  would  stay  here  all  night," 
Lucy  protested,  with  rising  indignation. 

"Perhaps  they've  gone  to  send  for  the  wrecking 
crew,  and  are  coming  back,"  Dana  suggested,  but 
his  tone  was  not  hopeful.  The  desert  looked  very 
big  and  grim,  and  they  drew  close  together,  like 
lost  children. 

"Isn't  it  more  likely  that  they  are  going  round 
another  way?"  Lucy  asked,  quietly  putting  herself 
out  of  the  category  of  those  who  must  be  cheered 
at  any  cost. 

"I — don't  know,  dear.  Ah,  I  ought  to  be  killed ! " 
He  was  tragic  with  remorse.  "Why  don't  you  jump 
all  over  me  for  not  taking  better  care  of  you?" 

"It  was  as  much  my  fault  as  yours.  Dana,  how 
far  is  it  to  —  where?" 

"That  is  what  I  am  wondering.  Wasn't  there  a 
station  —  let  me  see  —  since  lunch,  certainly!" 

"But  if  we  were  going  thirty  or  forty  miles  an 
hour " 

"Lucy,  stop  it!"  Dana  had  lost  colour.  "Arith- 
metic is  bad  for  the  soul;  don't  do  any  more  of  it. 
They'll  send  back  when  they  find  us  missing,  and 
a  few  hours  in  the  desert  won't  hurt  us.  It's  an 
adventure,  my  dear  girl.     People  enjoy  adventures." 

"Yes,  so  they  do."  Lucy  valiantly  straightened 
up.     "Well,  then,  we  will  enjoy  it." 


104  EVER  AFTER 

"Hooray  for  adventure,"  said  Dana  feebly,  follow- 
ing the  attempt  with  a  hearty  and  spontaneous,  "Oh, 
damn!"  She  relaxed  into  laughter,  so  genuine  that 
he  smiled  a  reluctant  response. 

"You  little  brick!"  he  exclaimed,  his  hand  falling 
on  her  shoulder.  "Well,  shall  we  walk  to  —  meet 
it?" 

Walking  to  meet  a  train  that  was  going  rapidly 
in  the  other  direction  was  not  a  hopeful  prospect, 
but  there  was  nothing  else  to  do.  They  felt  curi- 
ously tall  and  exposed  as  they  set  out  across  this 
flat  land,  where  nothing  else  stood  up  except  the 
telegraph  poles,  stalking  in  solemn  file  beside  the 
track.  Thoughts  of  crawling  dangers  kept  Dana's 
eyes  alert,  but  Lucy  mused  in  trustful  security. 

"You  know,  Dana,"  she  said  finally,  "if  we  had 
died  then,  when  you  said,  it  would  have  been  the 
perfect  moment  in  one  sense,  because  our  life 
together  was  absolutely  unmarred,  and  because  — 
oh,  everything  that  you  meant.  It  was  the  climax 
of  perfect  things.  But  it  takes  imperfect  things, 
too  —  struggles  and  hard  things  overcome,  to  — 
to " 

"Make  a  salad?" 

"Exactly.  We  want  seasoned  happiness,  tested 
love,  for  our  real  climax.  I  can't  actually  believe 
that  we  shall  ever  hurt  each  other,  but  we  shall, 
you  know.    Every  one  knows  that."    She  looked  as 


EVER  AFTER  105 

grieved  as  though  it  had  already  happened.  "Then 
we  shall  learn  better,  and  after  that  will  come  the 
time  to  die  —  if  we  must." 

"There  is  only  one  way  on  earth  that  you  can 
hurt  me,  little  Lucy;"  the  superb  confidence  of 
youth  in  love  straightened  his  shoulders  and  lifted 
his  head.     "So  long  as  you  care  for  me " 

"That  will  be  always  and  forever,  Dana!" 

"Then  there  is  nothing  else  that  could  matter. 
Besides,"  he  presently  went  on,  "if  we  are  going  to 
die  now,  there  will  be  a  bigger  moment  for  it  on 
Tuesday." 

"When  we  arrive?" 

"When  we  stand  on  the  front  deck  of  the  ferry- 
boat, with  the  city  cut  out  like  a  silhouette  against 
the  sunset,  and  the  ships " 

A  distant  whistle  interrupted.  Rescue  was  sig- 
nalling from  the  east,  where  their  train  was  rapidly 
growing  larger.  They  ran  toward  it,  waving  glori- 
ously. In  a  very  short  time  they  were  being 
hurried  on  board  by  an  indignant  conductor  and  a 
chuckling,  exulting  black  porter. 

"Ah  thought  you  was  left,  sir,"  he  bubbled  over 
in  the  intervals  of  the  conductor's  severe  comments 
on  wandering  away  from  the  train  and  not  heed- 
ing whistles.  "Ah  looked  and  looked  and  Ah 
couldn'  find  you  nowhar,  so  Ah  made  'em 
come  back  for  you,  sir.     Pretty  lonesome  place 


106  EVER  AFTER 

to  be  left  —  yas,  sir!  Ah'm  mighty  glad  Ah  looked 
you  up!" 

"I'm  mighty  glad  he  did,"  Dana  exclaimed  when 
at  last  the  stateroom  door  was  shut  on  the  excited 
welcome.  Lucy  sank  down  drooping  with  weariness 
and  relief. 

"I  should  say  so!  I  hope  you  gave  him  a  good 
reward  —  five  dollars,  at  least." 

He  paused  in  the  act  of  throwing  off  his  coat. 
"  Why,  darling,  I  gave  him  fifty,"  he  explained  with 
a  laugh. 

"Fifty  dollars?" 

"Of  course.  Think  what  he  did  for  us,  dear 
girl,  what  he  saved  us  from."  Dana  was  still  half 
laughing,  but  about  Lucy's  mouth  had  come  a  look 
that  any  member  of  old  Adrian  Cuyler's  large 
family  would  have  recognized  at  once. 

"But  that  was  absurd,"  she  protested  gravely. 
"Twenty  would  have  been  lavish,  but  perhaps 
justified.  But  fifty!  We  can't  fling  money  about 
like  that,  Dana." 

He  was  as  grave  as  she,  now,  and  a  little  pale. 

"  It  was  very  lavish,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  thought 
we  ought  to  be  very  lavish.  He  is  a  good  fel- 
low, Lucy.  He  is  saving  money  to  buy  a  home, 
he  told  me,  and  fifty  dollars  is  a  long  jump  to- 
ward it,  for  him.  He  almost  cried,  he  was  so 
pleased.     I  thought  it  was  right  to  do  him  a  good 


EVER  AFTER  107 

turn  —  when  you  realize  the  good  turn  he  has  done 
us." 

Lucy  was  nervously  overwrought,  and  the  appeal 
did  not  reach  her.  A  vulgar  spirit  would  have 
shown  irritation;  but  she  was  only  distressed. 

"Why  not  give  him  five  hundred,  then?"  she 
argued.  "He  would  have  been  still  more  pleased. 
Things  have  to  be  in  proportion,  dear!" 

He  drew  a  quick  breath  for  speech,  then  brought 
his  lips  together  again  and  turned  away. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  from  the  door  of  the  dressing- 
room.  "I  made  a  mistake.  We  must  brush  up 
now,  if  we  want  any  dinner." 

With  the  door  closed  between  them,  he  stood  for 
several  moments  staring  blindly  into  the  mirror. 
The  dark  eyes  that  stared  back  at  him  were  hurt 
and  dismayed.  Then  he  plunged  his  face  into  the 
cold  water. 

"She's  tired,  poor  little  soul,"  he  muttered. 

Ten  minutes  of  separation  brought  them  together 
in  such  a  fervour  of  loving  forgiveness  that  neither 
noticed  the  other's  serene  lack  of  self -blame.  Dana 
chivalrously  put  the  incident  aside,  as  something 
to  be  forgotten  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  though 
Lucy  was  not  hungry,  and  hated  to  pay  out  a  dollar 
for  six  courses  which  she  could  not  possibly  eat, 
she  repressed  her  longing  to  suggest  a  dinner  of 
chocolate  and  biscuits,  lest  it  seem  a  reproach  to 


108  EVER  AFTER 

his  extravagance.  All  was  right  with  their  world 
that  night,  and  Dana  sent  a  long  letter  to  Candace, 
telling  her  about  their  musical  mission.  If  Lucy 
was  a  little  less  enthusiastic  about  it,  now  that  the 
sunset  was  gone,  his  own  mounting  excitement  kept 
him  from  realizing  this. 

"I  feel  a  little  the  way  I  did  when  I  pulled  the 
pup  out  of  the  East  River,"  he  confided,  when  he 
had  read  her  the  letter.  "Isn't  it  fun  to  be  rich, 
Lucy!" 

Her  smile  was  faintly  worried.  "And  not  to  be 
lost  in  the  desert,"  she  added  quickly. 

"And  to  be  young,  and  in  love,  and  wearing 
diamonds."  They  laughed  at  that.  Kind  old  John 
Malone,  commission  merchant  and  political  lord 
of  half  a  city,  had  sent  his  nephew  a  generous  check, 
with  the  suggestion  that  a  diamond  scarfpin  would 
be  a  suitable  possession  for  a  young  man  making  a 
distinguished  connection.  The  picture  of  himself 
so  adorned  had  given  Dana  endless  joy.  Being 
left  free  in  the  matter,  he  had  spent  over  half  of 
the  money  on  a  jewel  for  Lucy,  then,  with  the  rest 
in  his  hand,  he  had  hunted  up  Palmer  Jacks. 

"You  know  about  clothes,"  he  had  declared  with 
worried  simplicity,  his  old  antagonism  forgotten. 
"What  can  I  get  with  that?" 

No  other  call  could  have  so  roused  Palmer's 
sympathies.     He  took  entire  charge  of  the  situation, 


EVER  AFTER  109 

introduced  Dana  to  concealed  tailors  and  private 
haberdashers,  chose  his  materials  for  him,  and 
managed  the  fund  with  a  diplomacy  and  skill  that 
resulted  in  an  astonishingly  good  outfit.  He  then 
presented  the  groom  with  a  handsome  leather  bag, 
took  him  to  Boston  and  put  him  correctly  through 
the  dazing  ordeal  of  the  wedding,  engaged  their 
drawing-room  on  the  train,  equipped  it  with  flowers 
and  magazines,  saw  the  pair  off  and  borrowed  five 
dollars  to  take  him  back  to  New  York,  well  satisfied 
with  his  exertions,  and  leaving  Dana  in  a  state  of 
breathless  gratitude  that  had  rapidly  solidified  into 
devotion. 

"Good  old  Palmer,"  he  murmured,  smiling  over 
the  memory  of  it  all.     "Oh,  good  old  world,  Looshy !" 

The  train  slipped  on  without  further  hindrance. 
Presently  the  Truckee  River  tumbled  and  foamed 
for  them,  and  a  dizzying  glimmer  of  Sierra  pines  and 
lakes  was  flashed  on  them,  biograph  fashion,  through 
the  cracks  of  the  snow  sheds.  Then  the  broad 
western  slopes  of  vineyard  and  orchard  led  them 
down  into  the  land  that  was  to  Dana  mother  and 
father,  home  and  religion,  his  beloved,  generous, 
sunbrowned  California.  The  very  breath  of  the 
fields,  he  insisted,  had  a  special  odour,  known  to  no 
other  state,  and  Lucy,  obediently  testing  it,  con- 
vinced herself  that  she,  too,  caught  it. 

Passing  the  tule  marshes  of  the  lower  Sacramento, 


110  EVER  AFTER 

Dana  fell  into  the  staring  silence  which  his  wife 
had  already  learned  to  respect.  Presently  he  took 
out  a  small  ruled  notebook  and  began  rapidly  to 
write  in  the  mysterious  alphabet  of  music.  After 
a  brief  spurt,  he  paused,  pencil  suspended,  humming 
in  dumb  show,  then  again  the  notes  seemed  to 
spring  from  his  pencil  point.  When  he  put  the 
book  away  again,  he  discovered  that  Lucy  had 
dressed  for  arriving,  even  to  veil  and  gloves,  and 
was  sitting  up  opposite  him  beside  a  strapped  bag, 
making  so  proper  and  charming  a  picture  of  a  lady 
arriving  that  he  laughed  out. 

"It  wasn't  anything,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  her 
questioning  smile.  "Only  it  does  seem  so  funny 
for  me  to  be  coming  home  with  a  wife  and  luggage! 
And  such  a  complete  wife,  some  way.  You're  so 
rounded  and  finished,  Lucy :  sometimes  I  feel  shaggy 
beside  you,  like  a  wild  ass  of  the  desert  beside  a  — 
a  water  lily." 

"Beside  a  white  rabbit,"  she  said  with  a  touch 
of  self -scorn.  "O  Dana,  I  hoped  marriage  would 
make  me  braver,  but  it  hasn't  a  bit."  She  leaned 
toward  him  with  lowered  voice  in  the  earnestness 
of  her  confession.  "Do  you  know,  when  I  want 
to  ask  the  conductor  the  right  time,  or  the  name 
of  a  station,  I  have  to  clear  my  throat  first,  and 
my  heart  goes  quicker?  Isn't  that  absurd?  What 
can  I  do?" 


EVER  AFTER  111 

He  bent  down  to  kiss  the  gloved  hands  folded 
on  her  knee.  "You  can  tell  me  to  ask  him.  That's 
what  I  am  here  for." 

"Ah,  but  I  can't  give  in  to  it  like  that.  Of 
course,  you  do  make  it  vastly  easier.  I  don't 
mind  walking  into  the  dining-car  at  all  with  you. 
That  used  to  be  such  an  ordeal !  I  have  gone  hungry 
many  a  time,  just  because  I  couldn't  make  myself 
start.  Tell  me,  truly  and  honestly,  don't  you 
just  a  little  hate  to  walk  down  a  car  aisle  by 
yourself?" 

He  shook  his  head,  smiling  at  the  troubled  inten- 
sity of  her  face.  "I'm  afraid  I  never  gave  it  a 
thought  in  my  life."    She  sighed. 

"That  is  how  one  should  be.  Dana,  do  you  think 
I  ought  to  make  myself  face  it  more  —  go  out  now 
and  walk  the  length  of  the  train?"  She  was  rising, 
all  ready  to  do  it  at  his  word:  but  he  drew  her 
down  again. 

"I  forbid  it,"  he  said,  with  vast  enjoyment  of  the 
word.  "Remember,  Lucy,  if  ever  you  are  tempted 
to  martyrize  your  darling  self  like  that,  your  husband 
forbids  it  —  and  that  settles  it  for  you."  She 
enjoyed  the  word,  too,  as  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
betrayed;  but  she  was  not  reassured. 

"That  is  far  too  easy,"  she  objected.  "But  you 
are  a  great  comfort,  Dana.  And  one  is  so  blessedly 
at  home  with  you." 


112  EVER  AFTER 

"You  don't  have  to  clear  your  throat  before  ad- 
dressing me?" 

She  gave  the  absurd  question  serious  thought. 
"It  would  be  hard  to  say  something  that  you  might 
not  like,"  she  admitted.  "If  I  had  to  criticise 
you  —  oh,  my  heart  would  be  very  loud  indeed!" 

"But  you  would  walk  right  up  to  it  like  a  little 
majorr 

"Yes.  How  would  you  face  it  if  you  had  to 
criticise  me?" 

"I  would  call  you  to  me,  quietly  but  firmly,  and 
I  would  say,  'Lucy,  why  can't  you  realize  that  it 
takes  you  twenty  minutes  longer  to  dress  than 
you  think  it  does?  Then  you  would  not  always  be 
exactly  twenty  minutes  late.'  Then  I  would  dry 
your  tears  and " 

"I  am  not,"  she  protested,  her  eyes  drowned  in 
laughter. 

"That  was  merely  an  example.  It  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  facts,  of  course.  Besides,  it  was 
only  fifteen  minutes  this  morning.  For  once,  I 
didn't  have  to  keep  the  diner  open  by  main  force." 
He  glanced  out  of  the  window,  then  started  forward 
to  look  more  closely.  "Why,  it's  raining,"  he  cried. 
"Oh,  no  fair!    Oh,  we  can't  have  that,  Lucy!" 

"We  won't  get  wet,"  she  reassured  him,  startled 
at  his  dismay. 

"Get  wet!    It  isn't  that.    It's  your  first  sight 


EVER  AFTER  113 

of  San  Francisco  —  old  Telegraph  Hill  and  Russian 
Hill  and  Nob  Hill  and  the  sun  going  down  behind 
them  in  a  blaze  of  glory.  Why,  Lucy,  that  was  to 
be  the  perfect  climax,  when  we  might  as  well  die 
as  not  —  don't  you  remember?"  He  was  thrusting 
things  into  his  bag  with  grieved  obliviousness.  "I 
could  hardly  wait  to  get  here,  thinking  of  it.  And 
now  this  dum'd  old  rain  —  oh,  I  must  say!" 

They  were  sweeping  along  the  margin  of  the  bay, 
beaten  flat  just  now  by  the  clean,  strong  downpour. 
The  ground  showed  that  rain  had  been  falling  for 
several  hours,  and  the  growing  light  in  the  west  was 
promising;  but  big  drops  were  still  running  down  the 
windows  when  the  train  ended  its  long  run  at  the 
ferry  and  the  laden  passengers  streamed  to  the 
boat.     Dana  was  gloomy  with  disappointment. 

"But  I  like  rain,  Dana,"  Lucy  urged. 

Passengers  from  local  trains  were  coming  on 
board,  and  apparently  they,  too,  liked  rain.  Few 
had  umbrellas,  and  there  were  many  wet  coats  and 
damaged  hats,  yet  all  carried  an  air  of  holiday  gayety. 
There  were  broad  smiles  everywhere;  acquaintances 
greeted  one  another  with  laughter  and  sounds  of 
congratulation,  hearty  hands  were  laid  on  damp 
shoulders;  strangers  seemed  to  fall  into  conversation 
at  any  pretext.     Lucy  stared  at  them. 

"I  never  saw  such  a  merry  people,"  she  finally 
protested.     "Are  they  always  like  this?" 


114  EVER  AFTER 

Sudden  understanding  brought  Dana  to  his  feet 
with  a  jump. 

"It's  the  first  rain,"  he  cried.  "Oh,  jinks  —  and 
to  think  that  I  complained !     Me!" 

He  left  her  without  ceremony,  turning  eagerly 
to  the  nearest  group  of  men.  The  breaking  of  the 
long  summer  drought  had  been  a  yearly  romance  to 
his  childhood;  and  to  the  least  imaginative  of  them 
it  meant  more  than  local  prosperity  and  vanquished 
dust.  They  held  out  their  hands  to  the  dwindling 
drops,  and  told  Dana  to  a  day  how  long  it  had  been 
since  the  last  rain,  late  in  May,  and  even  invited 
him  below  to  celebrate  the  event  when  he  explained 
that  he  was  a  native.  He  came  back  to  his  wife 
radiant  with  the  sense  of  home  and  welcome. 

"You  don't  know  what  that  rain  means  —  you 
can't,"  he  told  her.  "You're  only  a  tourist.  Come 
up  forward:  we  are  going  to  get  our  sunset,  after 
all.  I  can  manage  everything,  dear;  you  take  the 
umbrellas.  I  hope  they  still  have  hacks  at  the 
station,"  he  added  with  a  reminiscent  laugh.  "It 
was  the  dream  of  my  childhood  to  ride  in  one,  and 
I  never  did.  Wouldn't  you  rather  have  a  hack  than 
a  taxi?" 

She  smiled  constrainedly.  "The  hotel  is  near, 
isn't  it?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  yes.  Ten  minutes  or  so.  It's  clearing, 
dear.     Look  —  look,  there  she  is!" 


EVER  AFTER  115 

The  clouds  were  breaking,  and  already  the  hills 
of  the  city,  rising  steeply  before  them,  were  taking 
on  purple  and  mystery  against  the  gold  of  the  west. 
Dana,  leaning  on  the  forward  rail,  was  Jason  coming 
home  with  the  Golden  Fleece,  Parsifal  approaching 
the  Grail.  He  turned  to  his  wife  in  silent  recogni- 
tion of  their  great  moment.  But  Lucy's  face  was 
troubled,  and  about  her  mouth  lay  a  faint  compres- 
sion that  had  come  down  to  her  from  old  Adrian 
Cuyler.     Meeting  his  glance,  she  spoke  impulsively. 

"Dana!" 

"Yes,  dear." 

She  had  to  clear  her  throat.  "Don't  the  cars 
run  past  the  hotel?" 

"Why,  yes." 

It  was  evident  that  her  heart  was  very  loud 
indeed,  but  she  bravely  went  on.  "Then  why  not 
just  jump  on  a  car?  We  haven't  much  luggage, 
and  I  could  take  a  bag  perfectly  well." 

In  the  pause  that  followed,  her  colour  rose,  but 
her  lips  were  worriedly  firm. 

"As  you  please."  Dana  spoke  in  his  usual  voice, 
but  his  eyes  avoided  hers. 

"It  is  silly  to  take  carriages  all  the  time  when  the 
cars  are  so  quick  and  nice,"  she  urged,  breathlessly 
relieved  that  that  was  off  her  mind.  "Don't  you 
think  so,  dear?  And  cab  drivers  are  such  pirates. 
O  Dana,  this  is  very  beautiful!" 


116  EVER  AFTER 

"Yes,"  he  assented. 

"I  don't  wonder  that  you  love  it.  And  I  know 
a  little  what  showing  it  to  me  means,  because  I 
know  what  it  will  be  to  take  you  up  to  the  North 
Shore  place.    Sometimes  I  can  hardly  wait  for  that." 

"Yes,"  he  said  again. 

"If  we  could  only  have  had  this  alone,"  she  went 
on.  "That  was  what  made  the  desert  so  wonderful. 
Now  please  let  me  take  a  bag.  If  you  knew  how 
my  arms  ache  when  you  carry  them  all!" 

Their  perfect  moment  had  passed,  and  the  boat 
was  gliding  into  its  slip.  Dana  gathered  up  the 
luggage  and  led  the  way  in  silence.  The  car  was 
crowded,  and  passengers  climbed  or  fell  over  their 
bags  with  good-humoured  endurance.  Getting  them 
off  at  the  hotel  proved  an  operation  little  short  of 
surgery,  though  every  one  helped. 

"How  friendly  and  obliging  they  are,"  Lucy 
exclaimed,  but  Dana  still  said  nothing.  Once  in 
their  comfortable  rooms  —  the  Cuylers  always  took 
the  best  of  rooms  —  she  looked  intently  into  his  face. 

"You  are  tired,"  she  said. 

"A  little,"  he  admitted,  trying  to  smile.  "I  will 
go  down  and  have  a  smoke,  if  you  don't  mind." 

He  was  gone  before  she  could  remind  him  that  it 
was  dinner  time.  It  was  an  orderly  retreat  without, 
but  within  a  panic  flight;  for  Dana  assumed  gener- 
osity as  simply  and  inexorably  as  he  assumed  virtue 


EVER  AFTER  117 

in  the  woman  he  loved.  Before  the  door  had  closed, 
his  loyalty  was  crying  shame  on  his  fear,  assuring 
him  hotly  that  he  had  misunderstood,  that  it  could 
not  be  that;  but  he  fled  that  he  might  hide  his  coun- 
tenance from  her  until  its  foolish  darkening  had 
passed. 

He  was  allowed  no  time  for  brooding.  As  he 
stepped  out  of  the  elevator  on  the  ground  floor 
an  alert  little  elderly  man,  who  had  been  sitting 
in  upright  patience  on  a  bench  near  by,  rose  and 
stood  smiling  before  him. 

"I  thought  I  might  get  a  glimpse  of  you,  Dana;" 
there  was  a  charming  serenity  in  his  welcome.  "I 
wouldn't  interrupt  you,  but  I  did  want  a  glimpse." 

Dana  had  been  so  submerged  in  frowning  thought 
that  he  could  not  come  instantly  to  the  surface. 
He  glanced  remotely  at  the  fragile  face,  the  clean- 
shaven, aged  smile  set  between  two  neat  patches 
of  grizzled  whisker,  at  the  slight,  wasted  form  held 
gallantly  upright,  the  well-brushed  and  buttoned 
shabbiness;  then  he  put  out  both  hands  with  a 
joyous  exclamation: 

"Sam  Bynner!     Why,  you  dear  old Why 

on  earth  didn't  you  send  up  word?" 

"Well,  I  didn't  like  to  disturb  you."  There  was 
a  mild  twinkle  in  the  eyes  that  were  beaming  up 
at  Dana.  "And  when  you  had  just  arrived,  too. 
But  I  was  passing.     Now  we  will  sit  down  here,  if 


118  EVER  AFTER 

you  have  a  moment  to  spare.  I  am  not  very  good 
at  standing." 

Dana  had  had  time  to  realize  and  be  shocked 
at  the  change  in  his  old  friend:  he  seemed  to  have 
aged  out  of  all  proportion  to  his  years.  There  was 
a  change  of  the  spirit,  too.  He  had  always  been  a 
diffident  and  patient  soul,  too  afraid  of  wounding 
to  elbow  his  way  very  successfully,  yet  trying  most 
earnestly  to  do  all  that  could  be  expected  of  him. 
That  he  seemed  in  some  way  to  have  "graduated" 
was  Dana's  first  impression:  the  strain  that  had 
carved  his  face  into  hollows  was  over.  Then  the 
wide  sweetness  of  his  smile,  the  selfless  shining 
of  his  kind  eyes,  seemed  to  deserve  a  bigger  word. 
The  little  man  had  really  taken  on  something  angelic. 

"You  have  been  ill,"  Dana  accused  him. 

"Ah,  yes,  more  or  less." 

"But  that  won't  do.    Why "    Then  Dana 

saw  the  band  of  crepe  on  the  old-fashioned  top  hat, 
and  stopped  short.  Mr.  Bynner  nodded,  still  faintly 
smiling. 

"Yes,  I  am  alone  now."  He  spoke  as  detachedly 
as  he  had  about  his  own  health,  yet  with  a  gentle 
air  of  closing  the  topic.  "Dana,  I  wanted  you  to 
know  that  I  had  meant  to  leave  my  piano  to  you. 
Of  course,  you  won't  need  it,  now.  But  you  were 
always  kind  to  what  it  produced " 

Dana's   forbidden   sympathy   seized   the   outlet. 


EVER  AFTER  119 

"Kind!"  he  interrupted  hotly.  "I've  heard  every- 
thing since  I  went  East,  popular  music  and  all, 
and  there  hasn't  been  a  man  who  could  touch  you 
in  your  line.  You  ought  to  be  rich  and  famous, 
Sam  Bynner.  Why  aren't  you?  Did  you  really 
try  hard  enough  to  get  heard?" 

"Try  hard  enough?"  Mr.  Bynner  might  have 
been  a  disembodied  spirit,  smiling  over  the  little 
woes  of  mankind.  "Why,  Dana,  for  thirty  years 
I  had  only  one  other  thought  in  life.  You  remember 
my  opera?  And  poor  Ned  Hilliard's  libretto?  It 
was  pretty  good,  pretty  good;  but  they  wouldn't 
listen." 

"Who  wouldn't?" 

"The  managers.  For  years  and  years  we  were 
after  them,  Ned  and  I.  You  remember  how  I  went 
to  New  York?  But  they  never  listened,  not  once. 
They  made  appointments  now  and  then,  but  they 
never  kept  them."  He  laughed  to  himself.  "We 
got  up  an  amateur  production,  and  they  said  they 
would  come,  but  they  didn't.   They  wouldn't  listen." 

Dana  winced.  "What  a  young  egotist  I  must 
have  been!    I  didn't  realize  all  this." 

"Ah,  you  were  young.  And  I  didn't  want  to 
discourage  you.  As  poor  Ned  used  to  say,  they  won't 
give  you  a  hearing  till  you've  succeeded,  and  you 
can't  succeed  till  they've  heard  you.  It  is  a  hard 
game.    I  am  glad  to  be  done  with  it." 


120  EVER  AFTER 

"But  you  are  not  done  with  it.  Now  look  here!" 
Dana's  hand  closed  on  the  other's  shoulder  with 
touched  force.  "You  are  right  in  line  for  a  scheme 
Lucy  and  I  are  working  out.  Why,  you're  just 
what  we  want  —  a  dog  to  try  it  on.  Now,  listen." 
He  set  forth  his  plan  for  a  simpler  relation  be- 
tween the  composer  of  music  and  a  music-hun- 
gry world,  and  Mr.  Bynner  listened  in  shining 
approbation. 

"Fine,  fine!"  he  declared.  "Ah,  then  there  is 
something  that  you  can  do  for  me." 

"That's  just  what " 

"No,  no!  Not  that.  It  is  for  a  gifted  little 
fellow  who  lives  out  in  the  Mission:  I  am  on  my 
way  to  give  him  a  lesson  now.  Such  born  talent, 
Dana!  No  money,  ignorant  parents,  but  running 
over  with  music,  the  little  scamp.  I  discovered  him 
just  as  I  did  you.     I  will  carry  him  as  far  as  I  can, 

and  then  perhaps  you Ah,  little  Dana  Malone, 

it's  queer  to  think  of  you  as  a  rich  man!"  It  was 
only  the  second  time  that  that  term  had  been 
offered  Dana,  but  he  accepted  it  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"Isn't  it?"  he  assented  seriously.  "But  it  is 
your  music " 

Again  the  lifted  hand  stopped  him.  "I  have 
done.  Not  mine.  But  Luis  Valdez  —  don't  forget 
him.  Here  is  the  address.  You  can  pass  it  on 
to  him,  if  you  like  to  call  it  that." 


EVER  AFTER  121 

"I  promise  you  I  will.  But  no  one  can  ever  do 
for  anybody  what  you  did  for  me." 

"You  were  a  great  joy."  The  kind,  amused  eyes 
caressed  him.  "I  have  been  very  proud  of  my 
pupil.  Do  you  remember  the  Sam  Bynner  waltz 
which  you  wrote  for  my  birthday?  I  have  treasured 
that  funny  little  manuscript,  I  can  tell  you." 

Dana  laughed.  "The  Sam  Bynner  waltz?  Of 
course  I  remember  it.  Don't  get  up.  Won't  you 
stay  to  dinner  and  meet  Lucy?" 

"Not  to-night.  Ah,  I  must  hurry.  It  has  been 
good  to  see  you,  Dana."  They  walked  together 
to  the  door,  and  Dana  realized  again  how  feeble  his 
old  friend  had  grown. 

"I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  you,"  he  ex- 
claimed, a  question  in  his  voice.  Mr.  Bynner  pressed 
his  hand. 

"Do  it  for  Luis,"  he  said.  "I  have  no  needs, 
dear  boy." 

As  Dana  turned  back,  he  saw  Lucy  coming  in 
search  of  him.  She  had  put  on  a  delicate  crepe 
gown  that  accented  the  blue  and  rose  and  brown  of 
her  lovely  colouring,  and  though  she  had  neglected 
to  change  her  stout  little  travelling  shoes,  Dana 
was  blind  to  such  distinctions.  Love  for  her,  amazed 
pride  that  so  exquisite  a  lady  should  belong  to  him, 
swept  through  him  like  a  clean  wind,  driving  out 
a  lurking  cloud  of  troubled  thought.     Facing  the 


122  EVER  AFTER 

peopled  hall,  where  men  turned  and  gave  her  long, 
cool  looks,  was  misery  to  Lucy,  but  she  kept  her 
eyes  serene,  her  step  unhurried :  only  her  compressed 
lips  hinted  at  effort.  But  the  light  of  relief  in  her 
face  as  she  saw  Dana,  the  sudden,  relaxed  smile, 
very  nearly  landed  her  in  his  arms. 

"I  kept  you  waiting.  I  am  sorry,"  he  exclaimed. 
"But  dear  old  Sam  Bynner  was  here.  I  have  adopted 
a  son,  Lucy." 

She  glanced  up  anxiously,  but,  meeting  his  smile, 
smiled  back.  "I  hope  it  was  a  nice  one,"  she  said 
as  they  turned  to  the  dining-room. 

"I  haven't  seen  him  yet.  It  is  a  musical  god- 
child. Luis  Valdez  —  don't  forget  that  name.  I  am 
to  look  out  for  him  when  Sam  Bynner  has  —  done 
all  he  can."     Lucy  was  more  interested  in  the  menu. 

"I  would  rather  he  were  a  little  girl,"  she  said 
inattentively. 

"Well,  perhaps  we  can  pick  up  a  little  girl,  too." 
They  smiled  over  that.  "We  must  see  this  boy. 
Dear  me,  the  things  we  are  going  to  do  in  this 
town!"  He  took  from  his  pocket  a  list  of  names 
and  laid  it  before  her.  "There  is  a  dinner  party  we 
must  give."  She  glanced  at  it  with  a  disturbed 
frown. 

"But  they  will  invite  us  to  dinner,"  she  protested. 
"People  always  do  when  you  are  newly  married. 
We  don't  need  to  do  anything." 


EVER  AFTER  123 

"Oh,  this  is  just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing,"  he 
explained  blithely.  "I  chose  the  very  nicest  people 
I  knew,  without  regard  to  age,  sex,  or  station.  Such 
bully  people,  Lucy !  Some  of  them  are  so  poor,  they 
couldn't  ask  us  to  dinner,  anyway."  Her  troubled 
eyes  were  on  the  list. 

"I  know  several  of  these  names,"  she  said  absently. 

"Oh,  yes.  You've  heard  me  speak  of  the  Will 
Merriams:  he's  an  associate  professor  at  the  uni- 
versity. I  used  to  go  there  to  Sunday  supper  when 
I  was  in  college,  and  help  them  wash  the  dishes 
afterward.  And  Mary  Haden  —  she  has  the  won- 
derful music  room  I  told  you  about.  And  Leila 
Stevenson  —  good  old  Leila  —  she  sings;  and  Mor- 
gan Dwight  has  the  voice  of  seven  angels,  but  is 
too  everlastingly  lazy  to  cultivate  it.  We'll  get  in 
a  piano  and  sing  between  the  courses.  We  will 
have  a  private  dining-room,  of  course."  The  thrill 
of  hospitality,  the  joy  of  coming  back  to  his  home 
with  the  power  to  give  his  friends  an  unstinted 
welcome,  expanded  his  chest.  "Oh,  won't  it  be 
fun,  Looshy!"  he  burst  out. 

"Yes,  oh,  yes!  But  suppose  Miss  Haden  had 
planned  to  do  it  —  she  would,  wouldn't  she?  Won't 
she  be  disappointed  if  we  cut  in  ahead  of  her?" 

"We'll  go  to  her,  too.  And  she  won't  have  just 
the  same  crowd.  No,  she  will  love  it,  dear.  They 
all  will.    And  they'll  love  you.    You  won't  feel 


124  EVER  AFTER 

shy  with  them,  little  Lucy."  He  smiled  his  under- 
standing of  her  secret  reluctance.  "You  can't, 
after  ten  minutes.  And  I'll  be  right  there.  What 
night  shall  we  set?" 

"Don't  decide  it  now,"  she  said  quickly:  then 
her  colour  rose.     "I  am  so  tired,"  she  apologized. 

"Of  course  you  are,  far  too  tired  for  plans!" 

He  put  away  the  list  at  once,  and  his  very  voice 
caressed  and  cared  for  her.  After  dinner  he  insisted 
that  she  should  go  straight  to  bed  and  be  read  to 
sleep.  After  he  had  tucked  her  in,  he  shaded  the 
light  from  her  eyes  and  drew  up  a  chair  close  beside 
her.    . 

"It  is  such  fun  to  take  care  of  you,"  he  confided. 

The  happiness  of  being  taken  care  of  shone  up 
at  him.  "I  don't  think  I  am  very  well  fitted  to 
take  care  of  myself,"  she  admitted.  "I  have 
carried  such  a  load,  Dana:  it  has  all  been  so  worrying." 

"And  now?" 

"Ah,  now  it  is  so  blessed  that  I  am  half  afraid 
of  it.  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  give  myself  up  to  it 
so.     Isn't  it  cowardly  to  feel  so  relieved?     Shouldn't 

I "     Then  she  saw  that  he  was  smiling  deeply, 

and  broke  off,  hiding  her  face  in  his  sleeve.  "Jeering 
at  me!"  she  complained.  His  laugh  admitted  it  as 
he  bent  down  to  her. 

"God  bless  Lucy  and  make  her  a  good  girl,"  he 
murmured. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

Dana  was  awakened  early  the  next  morning  by 
a  new  and  joyful  consciousness.  It  had  lain,  an 
elusive  brightness,  along  the  edge  of  his  dreams  all 
night,  as  it  had  touched  his  waking  thoughts  with 
indirect  pleasantness  for  the  past  two  days;  but, 
until  this  morning,  the  definite,  powerful,  delightful 
reality  that  he  was  a  rich  man  had  been  an  abstract 
idea  rather  than  a  concrete  force.  Had  he  awak- 
ened with  a  pair  of  stout  wings  on  his  shoulders,  he 
could  scarcely  have  been  more  suddenly  initiated 
into  a  new  state.  The  fun  of  it,  the  amazing  fun! 
Brilliant  plans,  little  and  big,  raced  across  his 
excited  vision :  to  give,  to  help,  to  have,  to  do  —  the 
dizzying  freedom  took  a  dozen  aspects  a  minute, 
and  a  plan  of  a  white  marble  concert  hall  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  thought  that  he  could  have  a  new 
sweater  without  a  hint  of  incongruity.  He  knew 
that  a  stream  of  money  from  Lucy's  abundant 
resources  flowed  into  a  reservoir,  that  they  might 
both  dip  freely  into  it;  and  the  desire  —  romantic 
rather  than  vulgar  —  to  go  forth  and  spend  set  his 
heart  pounding  in  his  side.    The  only  flaw  in  his 

125 


126  EVER  AFTER 

happiness  was  that  Lucy  could  not  share  it  with 
him.     She  was  so  used  to  being  rich,  poor  girl ! 

Excitement  made  staying  still  an  impossibility. 
He  stole  out,  and  presently  stood  in  the  cool  October 
brightness  of  the  early  morning,  choosing  his  direc- 
tion. He  had  brought  his  new  check  book  as  well  as 
a  pocketful  of  money,  but  the  shops  would  not  be 
open  for  two  hours  yet,  and,  after  a  cup  of  coffee, 
he  was  free  to  wander.  He  had  come  flying  back 
to  his  city  in  the  time  of  her  great  disaster  and  had 
worked  for  her  until  his  scanty  resources  were  used 
up,  so  he  was  spared  now  the  fresh  pain  of  her  loss: 
it  was  the  inspired  courage  of  her  uprising  that 
gripped  him  and  made  him  long  to  cheer  as  he 
went  swiftly  up  the  empty  streets.  And  he  had 
come  back  a  rich  man.  He  could  do  something  for 
the  many  gaping  needs  that  lurked  behind  this 
bravely  prosperous  front. 

"My  God,  it's  good!"  he  said  aloud,  his  eyes 
dark  before  the  revelation. 

The  haunts  of  his  exploring  youth  tempted  him. 
Little  Italy,  the  Barbary  Coast,  the  steep  streets 
of  Chinatown,  were  snares  to  his  feet,  but  he  would 
not  look  at  them  without  Lucy.  He  strode  on  until 
he  came  to  a  forgotten  remnant  of  the  old  city,  a  tiny 
house  perched  on  a  cliff  and  reached  by  a  flight  of 
steps  so  long  that  the  whole  suggested  a  pigeon 
house  set  on  a  stick.      It  had  once  been  a  thriftily 


EVER  AFTER  127 

respectable  little  home,  as  its  dormer  roof  and  long 
French  windows  suggested,  but  squalor  had  over- 
taken its  later  years.  The  porch  sagged,  the  un- 
painted  wood  visibly  rotted;  even  the  "For  Sale" 
signs  looked  draggled  and  without  hope.  Dana 
mounted  the  steps  as  one  having  a  right,  and,  near 
the  top,  turned  to  look  down  on  a  wonderful  vista 
of  bay  and  distant  mountain.  The  greater  part 
of  his  childhood  had  been  passed  on  those  steps, 
scrambling  up  them,  tumbling  or  coasting  down, 
playing  games  on  the  landing,  with  little  apparent 
heed  for  the  view;  yet  it  was  the  view  that  seemed 
to  stand  for  all  those  happy  years,  rather  than 
their  meagre  setting.  And  he  had  come  back  a 
capitalist  —  little  Dana  Malone !  The  thought  made 
him  laugh  out  as  he  turned  for  a  second  look  at  his 
old  home. 

It  was  startling  to  find  that  a  silent  group  had  been 
staring  at  his  back.  A  young  woman  with  a  coffee- 
pot clutched  in  one  unconscious  hand  stood  in  the 
doorway,  two  half-dressed  children  at  her  side,  and 
behind  her  a  tall,  sickly  looking  man  with  a  shawl 
about  his  shoulders.  The  stillness  of  the  group,  its 
rigid  expectancy,  puzzled  Dana  as  he  caught  off 
his  hat  and  smiled  apology. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!  I  used  to  live  here  when 
I  was  a  small  boy,  so  I  came  up  to  take  a  look." 

Expectancy  vanished  and  the  group  fell  apart. 


128  EVER  AFTER 

The  man  turned  away  with  a  sigh,  the  very  children 
seemed  to  droop  with  disappointment.  The  young 
woman's  face  had  saddened,  but  she  stayed  by  her 
hope. 

"You  didn't  think  of  buying?"  she  ventured. 

"Oh,  no."  Then  the  meaning  of  their  disappoint- 
ment reached  and  touched  him.  "I'm  sorry  you 
thought  that." 

"Annie!"  called  the  man  impatiently  from  within, 
but  she  still  lingered.  "You  don't  know  any  one 
who'd  buy  it,  I  suppose?"  she  went  on  in  a  quick 
undertone.  She  had  a  gentle  little  face,  and  Dana 
fancied  that  there  was  a  look  of  Lucy  about  it  — 
Lucy  pale,  worn  and  in  trouble. 

"You  want  to  sell?" 

"It's  his  health.  If  we  could  go  South  and  get 
started  before  the  winter,  the  doctor  says  —  and 
he  could  work  down  there  —  we'd  sell  it " 

"Annie!"  repeated  the  irritable  voice. 

"Yes,  Ed.    If  you  did  hear  of  any  one " 

She  was  turning  away. 

Dana's  heart,  already  big  with  new  emotions, 
seemed  to  open  in  his  breast,  letting  out  a  warm 
rush  of  human  love  and  pity. 

"What  would  you  sell  it  for?"  he  asked. 

The  price  sounded  pitifully  small,  for  the  relief 
it  would  purchase.  And  he  was  a  rich  man!  No 
prince  consort,  but  an  equal  dispenser  of  the  power, 


EVER  AFTER  129 

by  the  decree  of  his  dear  sovereign  lady.  All  the 
morning's  joyous  desire  seemed  meant  for  just 
this  climax. 

"I'll  buy  it,"  he  said. 

Her  cry  brought  back  the  others,  and  the  tears 
on  her  cheeks  strengthened  and  steadied  the  im- 
pulse that  had  made  him  speak.  What  he  had  done 
was  as  inevitable  as  to  pull  a  drowning  creature  out 
of  the  river,  and  left  the  same  afterglow  of  warmth 
and  joy.  The  man  tried  to  meet  the  news  with 
the  offhand,  businesslike  coolness  of  an  American 
and  a  property  owner,  but  his  thin  hand  trembled 
as  he  got  out  his  papers  and  showed  Dana  the  present 
boundaries  of  his  purchase. 

"The  agent  lives  right  up  here  a  block  or  two: 
he  won't  have  gone  to  his  office  yet,"  he  ventured, 
evidently  half  afraid  of  putting  this  romantic  buyer 
to  the  test  of  reality.  Dana,  understanding,  drew 
out  his  new  check  book. 

"That's  good,"  he  said.  "I  can  leave  a  check 
with  him,  and  he  can  send  me  the  papers  as  soon  as 
they're  made  out."  The  woman  caught  his  hand 
and  laid  her  wet  cheek  on  it. 

"Oh,  now,  Annie!"  remonstrated  her  husband; 
but  the  two  men  smiled  at  each  other,  in  humorous 
understanding  of  the  ways  of  wives. 

The  agent  was  found  and  the  check  writ- 
ten:  a  hearty  handshake  concluded  the  business. 


130  EVER  AFTER 

The  man  tried  to  say  something,  hesitated  and 
flushed. 

"It's  worth  that  much,  anyhow,"  he  brought  out. 

"Fully  worth  it,"  agreed  Dana.  The  other  looked 
relieved  at  the  admission. 

"Hope  you'll  sell  it  for  a  lot  more  some  day,"  he 
said,  offering  his  hand  again. 

"I  like  that  fellow,"  was  Dana's  thought  as  he 
hurried  to  the  nearest  car  line.  Then  he  laughed 
aloud,  with  a  slap  at  his  breast  pocket.  What  fun 
it  was ! 

Lucy  was  awake  and  wondering  when  he  came  in, 
carrying  a  great  sheath  of  roses.  He  held  their 
faces  to  hers  as  she  cried  out  in  delight. 

"O  Dana!     Who  sent  them? " 

"California.     With  love  and  a  kiss." 

"You,  of  course.  The  darlings!"  She  revelled 
in  them,  touching,  caressing  them,  while  he  happily 
looked  on.  "I  suppose  you  got  them  for  almost 
nothing,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh  for  what  roses 
meant  at  home.  He  smiled  to  himself,  for  the  land  of 
flowers  does  not  give  away  its  blossoms  in  the  streets 
of  San  Francisco,  and  he  had  gone  deep  in  this  first 
glorious  plunge  after  beauty;  but  he  said  nothing. 
A  bellboy  brought  jars  and  pitchers  to  hold  them, 
and  Dana  arranged  them  under  Lucy's  orders. 
He  had  come  racing  home  with  the  tale  of  his  won- 
derful morning,  yet,  now  that  he  was  here,  he  could 


EVER  AFTER  131 

not  seem  to  begin  it;  a  curious  reluctance  was 
quenching  his  eagerness.  Lucy  would  love  the 
adventure  as  he  did,  of  course.  Why  should  telling 
her  suddenly  appear  formidable? 

"I  suppose  I'm  hungry,"  he  said  aloud.  "Why, 
of  course  I  am.  I've  been  up  for  hours  with  nothing 
but  a  cup  of  coffee." 

"My  dear!     Go  down  at  once  and " 

"Not  at  all.  We  will  breakfast  up  here."  And 
Dana  rang  the  bell  as  if  he  had  been  summoning 
waiters  and  ordering  just  what  he  wanted  all  his 
life.  Lucy,  offered  an  a  la  carte  menu,  always  lost  her 
appetite,  and  she  hesitated  among  the  dishes  so 
worriedly  that  he  took  the  matter  into  his  own 
hands. 

"You  leave  it  to  me.  You'll  be  hungry  when 
you  see  it,"  he  assured  her,  writing  the  order  with 
a  bold  pencil.  "Go  and  tub  your  darling  self  while 
it  is  coming,  and  I'll  get  everything  ready." 

His  easy  authority  relieved  her  of  responsibility, 
and  she  yielded  to  it  in  happy  relief.  Could  Dana 
have  remained  unaware  of  Grandfather  Cuyler, 
that  unlovely  spirit  would  never  have  walked  to 
blight  their  happiness;  but  already  his  unconscious- 
ness was  touched.  Individual  glimpses  might  be 
denied  or  explained  away,  but  they  left  behind  an 
unworded  knowledge.  When  Lucy  came  back, 
little  damp  rings  of  hair  about  her  ears,  heelless, 


132  EVER  AFTER 

unformidable  and  altogether  sweet,  he  still  shrank 
from  telling  what  he  had  done,  and  the  splendid 
tale  was  taking  on  in  his  mind  a  ridiculous  and 
irritating  aspect  of  confession. 

"After  breakfast,"  he  reassured  himself  as  the 
laden  tray  entered.  He  had  drawn  up  a  table  beside 
the  bed,  and  so  surrounded  it  with  roses  that  they 
might  have  been  sitting  in  an  arbour.  She  smiled 
reminiscence. 

"Do  you  remember  the  time  you  decorated  your 
cabin  for  me?  " 

"Do  I!" 

"And  then  you  played  'Mary  Alone/" 

"And  then  you  stumbled."  They  laughed,  drop- 
ping forks  and  spoons  to  clasp  hands  across  the 
table.  "The  morning  and  the  evening  were  the  first 
day.     Do  you  remember  the  evening,  little  Lucy?" 

She  could  still  flush  over  that  strange,  involuntary 
pilgrimage  through  the  June  dusk  to  his  hidden 
cabin.  "How  could  you  be  so  sure  it  was  I? 
Several  of  the  girls  had  on  white." 

"How  could  I  be  so  sure  my  heart  was  in  my  left 
side?" 

"Werenrt  we  happy  —  and  weren't  we  miserable. 
That  horrid  Mr.  Ludlam!"  She  shivered  and  went 
back  to  her  breakfast. 

"Aren't  you  ever  going  to  tell  me  how  he  made 
trouble  ?    What  he  said  or  did  ?  " 


EVER  AFTER  138 

"Yes.    I'll  tell  you  on  your  sixty -fifth  birthday." 

"But  perhaps  I  couldn't  go  and  hit  him  for  it, 
then.     He  might  be  dead." 

"Oh,  never  mind  him.  He  can't  hurt  us  again. 
Isn't  it  wonderful  to  be  so  close  that  no  one  — 
nothing  —  could  get  in  between?" 

"And  to  have  done  it  in  twenty-four  hours! 
For  you  know,  Lucy,  we  were  just  pretending  that 
we  weren't  married,  after  that  night.  We  knew 
we  really  were." 

"Indeed  we  did  not.  I  didn't  know  anything 
except  that  it  was  —  nice  weather.  Why,  Dana 
Malone,  it  any  one  had  said  to  you,  that  first  day, 
'Four  months  from  now,  this  shy,  stiff  girl  from 
Massachusetts ' " 

"  'This  inaccessible  princess  in  a  porcelain  tower,'  " 
he  broke  in,  "'will  be  eating  breakfast  with  you  in 
San  Francisco,  with  her  hair  in  two  blessed  pigtails, 
one  over  each  ear,  and  her  appetite  exceedingly 
good  for  a  young  woman  who  didn't  want  anything 
but  toast,'  I  should  have  fainted,  Miss  Lucy.  But, 
oh,  I  should  have  come  to  again!" 

"Four  months!"  The  shocking  brevity  of  their 
acquaintance  was  a  delight  to  her.  "And  we  have 
only  known  each  other  in  the  country,  too.  We 
may  be  quite  different  in  town.     I  know  I  am." 

"I  suppose  you  turn  haughty  and  ask  about 
grandfathers?"     He    could    have    told    his    tale 


134  EVER  AFTER 

in  happy  confidence  now,  but  he  would  not  in- 
terrupt. 

"Yes,  of  course.  And  I  suppose  you  turn 
bohemian." 

"What's  that?" 

"I  don't  know,  if  you  don't." 

"I  know  what  some  people  think  it  is  —  loathly 
beasts  they  are,"  said  Dana,  serenely  buttering 
toast.     "Your  aunts  will  probably  call  me  that." 

"But,  just  between  ourselves,  Dana,  are  you?" 

"Lord,  no.  Je  suis  bon  bourgeous,  moi.  Perc 
de  famille."  He  laughed  expansively.  "I  wonder 
if  you  will  consider  our  dinner  party  bohemian? 
I  never  thought  of  the  horrid  word,  myself." 

"Oh,  our  dinner "  she  began  vaguely. 

"We  must  write  the  notes  to-day,  dear  girl. 
You'll  enjoy  them:  you  can't  help  it,"  he  added 
reassuringly,  seeing  how  her  face  had  clouded.  He 
rambled  on  about  these  dear  and  charming  friends, 
not  dreaming  that  something  had  to  be  said, 
and  that  Lucy,  in  a  misery  of  dread,  was  nerving 
herself  to  "walk  up  to  it  like  a  little  major."  It 
came  quite  suddenly. 

"Dana!  About  these  people  —  why  not  have 
them  to  tea  instead  of  to  dinner?" 

"To  tea?"  he  repeated  blankly. 

"Yes.  In  the  afternoon.  It  would  be  so  much 
simpler  than  a  great  dinner  and  I  should  really 


EVER  AFTER  135 

meet  them  better.  It  isn't  as  if  they  would  expect 
anything  like  a  dinner  from  us:  the  obligation  is  all 
the  other  way.     What  do  you  think,  dear?  " 

It  was  Dana  who  had  to  clear  his  throat.  In  his 
averted  eyes  was  a  look  of  bewildered  fright.  "Do 
you  mean  —  because  of  the  expense,  Lucy?" 

"Well,  it  would  cost  absurdly,  a  private  dining- 
room  and  a  piano.  And  when  we  can  get  the  same 
thing,  can  meet  them  all  just  as  well  at  a  tea  — 
don't  you  see?" 

* '  Are  we  —  spending  too  much  ?    I  supposed ' ' 

"Oh,  there  is  plenty,  of  course.  But,  Dana 
dear,"  she  lowered  her  voice  confidentially,  "I 
thought  it  would  be  so  very  nice  if  the  rent  of  the 
Shore  house  for  the  summer  just  balanced  this 
trip.     Don't  you  think  it  would?" 

"Why,  Lucy?" 

"Oh,  it  would  be  like  getting  all  this  for  nothing. 
The  old  place  was  never  rented  before." 

"Do  you"  —  the  question  came  hard,  but  he 
dragged  it  out  by  main  force,  miserably  bent  on 
understanding  — "  do  you  spend  much  of  your 
income?" 

"A  good  deal.  There  are  those  two  big  houses 
to  keep  up,  besides  all  that  one  has  to  give  away. 
My  grandfather  used  to  say  that  one  should  live 
on  the  income  of  one's  income:  invest  the  income, 
you  see,  and  live  on  the  interest  of  that;  but  I  have 


136  EVER  AFTER 

never  tried  it.  I  shouldn't  quite  want  to,  I  think." 
And  yet  Lucy's  voice  was  wistful,  and  about  her 
mouth  lay  the  faint  compression  that  had  come 
down  to  her  with  her  thousands.  Dana  saw  it,  for 
the  first  time,  and  an  ashamed  colour  swept  up  to 
his  forehead.  "It  is  so  foolish  to  throw  money 
about,"  Lucy  was  saying,  vastly  relieved  that  that 
was  over.  "  Of  course,  if  you  really  cared  about  it 
being  a  dinner " 

"  No." 

"Then  that  is  settled.  And  I  think  the  tea  will 
be  very  pleasant.     What  are  we  going  to  do  to-day  ? ' ' 

Dana  rose.  "Suppose  I  let  you  dress  now? 
We've  finished,  haven't  we?  Then  we  can  go  out 
and  do  —  something." 

He  abruptly  left  her,  shutting  the  door  between 
the  two  rooms.  He  knew,  now;  and  all  that  he  had 
explained  away  came  back  to  reinforce  his  knowl- 
edge. His  princess  in  the  porcelain  tower  was 
clay,  like  other  people.  He  had  laughed  at  Lucy, 
teased  her  for  small  foibles;  but  his  idealistic  youth 
had  accepted  her,  simply  and  without  wonder,  as 
flawless.  And  now,  with  the  ugly  flaw  past  denial, 
he  had  as  yet  no  thought  for  how  it  must  affect  him. 
He  could  see  only  his  heartsickening  disappoint- 
ment. 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  he  protested  aloud,  but  the  denial 
was  only  mechanical.     He  knew. 


EVER  AFTER  137 

Fortunately,  Lucy  was  a  long  time  dressing. 
Chivalry  presently  rose  up  to  combat  the  desolating 
sense  of  loss.  Before  she  opened  the  door,  he  was 
sorry  for  her,  tender  over  her,  humbly  apologetic 
that  he,  so  full  of  vital  flaws,  should  have  judged  her 
for  this  single  defect.  His  one  thought  was  to  hide 
his  bruise  from  the  merry,  challenging  eyes  that 
sought  his  from  the  doorway.  Lucy  had  made 
herself  very  handsome,  and  knew  it. 

"Being  married  is  really  a  tremendous  lark," 
she  confided  to  him  as  they  went  out  together. 
"What  did  you  do  this  morning  when  you  were 
out  so  early?'* 

Memory  of  what  he  had  done  came  back  with  an 
appalling  shock.  He  drew  breath,  nervously,  to 
tell  her;  but  the  elevator  was  not  a  suitable  place, 
and  in  the  courtyard  below  they  were  stopped  by 
an  old  acquaintance.  After  that,  there  seemed 
to  be  no  time,  Lucy  was  so  eager  to  see  the  city,  so 
absorbed  in  its  vivid  history. 

"I'll  tell  her  at  lunch,"  he  decided,  irritated  and 
ashamed  at  his  own  reluctance,  but  when,  at  last, 
hunger  drove  them  into  a  cafe,  a  new  aspect  of  the 
affair  kept  him  silent.  For  a  dismal  conviction  that 
he  had  made  a  fool  of  himself,  that  radiant  morning, 
had  been  steadily  gaining  ground  under  his  cheerful 
conversation.  He  had  taken  a  goodly  handful  of 
his  wife's  money  and  bought  with  it  an  inaccessible 


138  EVER  AFTER 

cliff  in  an  undesirable  neighbourhood.  Large  sums 
spent  in  blasting  and  grading  might  bring  the  tiny 
lot  within  reach;  but  even  then  it  would  be  of  little 
value  until  that  down-at-the-heel  corner  of  town 
had  suffered  a  change.  To  have  bought  it  without 
her  consent  might  well  make  her  anxious  as  to  what 
he  would  do  another  time;  and,  at  the  thought  of 
worried  strictures,  his  chin  went  up  and  his  lips 
stiffened.  By  every  instinct  of  his  being,  Dana 
Malone  was  the  head  of  his  family,  and  the  head 
of  a  family  may  not  be  put  in  the  position  of  a 
schoolboy  who  has  overdrawn  his  allowance.  No, 
not  even  if  he  is  in  the  wrong. 

"You  don't  seem  hungry,"  observed  Lucy. 

"Curious  —  after  that  breakfast!"  He  forced 
himself  back  to  cheerful  attentiveness.  Lucy's 
gayety  proved  to  him  how  well  he  had  succeeded 
in  it,  that  interminable  morning.  Her  cheeks  were 
flushed,  and  her  eyes,  usually  so  gently  blue,  had 
a  new  glint  and  sparkle. 

"You  know,  Dana,  I  am  not  going  to  be  utterly 
selfish,  out  here,"  she  presently  assured  him,  with 
the  earnestness  that  made  people  want  to  smile 
at  her.  "You  must  go  about  with  your  old  friends, 
too.  They  will  be  hurt  if  you  don't.  And  I  shall 
be  tired  and  want  to  rest  in  the  afternoons.  So  you 
will  be  perfectly  free." 

"I   don't  know  that  I  want  to  be  free,  little 


EVER  AFTER  139 

Lucy."  He  spoke  more  soberly  than  the  occasion 
warranted,  his  eyes  on  his  plate.  Her  glance 
passed  like  a  secret  caress  from  his  rough  black  hair, 
so  oddly  touched  with  gray,  to  the  broad,  over- 
hanging forehead,  and  the  jutting  chin  with  its 
deep  cleft.  To  any  one  who  loved  Dana,  his  irreg- 
ular brown  face  had  an  appealing  beauty. 

"I  know.  But  you  must  remember  that  you  are," 
she  insisted.  "I  never  have  little  hurt  feelings, 
you  know.  I  could  have  very  big  ones,  if  anything 
were  meant  unkindly,  but  the  little  ones  are  only 
vanity  and  egotism.  Did  you  know  that,  Dana? 
I  found  it  out,  once,  and  so  I  pulled  them  all  up  by 
the  roots.    There  isn't  one  left." 

He  managed  to  smile  at  her.  "If  you  see  any 
in  me,  will  you  pull  them  up,  too?" 

"Ah,  you  were  born  big,  dearest,  big  and  uncon- 
scious: you  didn't  have  to  grow  big,  inch  by  inch, 
all  by  yourself.  Not  that  I  have  done  it,  yet;  but 
I  am  going  to  be  before  I  die."  And  she  nodded 
reassuringly,  as  though  to  say,  "Just  wait!"  A 
startled  thought  that  she  might  have  seen  how  she 
had  hurt  his  ideal  of  her,  that  morning,  sharpened 
his  glance. 

"What  made  you  think  of  that  now?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"Nothing.  I  am  always  thinking  about  it,  one 
way    or    another  —  about    bigness    and    beauty." 


140  EVER  AFTER 

The  waiter  interrupted  with  the  card,  but  she  shook 
her  head.     "We  don't  want  anything  more,  do  we?" 

"I  don't."  Dana  glanced  indifferently  at  the 
score  offered  him,  then  put  down  a  bill  with  the 
gesture  that  is  answered  by  a  gratified  bow. 

"You  know  what  I  wish?"  he  exclaimed.  "That 
your  nice  brown  hair  lifted  on  a  hinge,  so  that  one 
could  look  inside  now  and  then  and  find  out  just 
what  was  going  on.  It  might  save  us  a  lot  of  trouble, 
Miss  Lucy.  For  I  don't  suppose  you  will  ever  really 
tell  me." 

"I  will  tell  you  what  is  going  on  this  minute," 
she  said,  putting  on  her  gloves.  "I  think  that  you 
ought  to  have  added  up  the  score,  to  see  if  it  was 
right,  and  I  think  you  gave  too  large  a  tip  for  a  little 
lunch."  She  smiled  to  show  that  it  did  not  really 
matter,  this  time,  but  Dana  was  too  deeply  dis- 
appointed to  respond.  Whatever  might  be  in  her 
thoughts,  she  evidently  had  no  conception  of  what 
was  lying  so  heavily  in  his. 

"And  now  the  Chinese  shops,"  she  demanded, 
rising.  "Don't  you  think  it  would  be  nice  if  we 
took  a  present  to  Candy?" 

His  agreement  was  so  radiant,  so  fit  with  relief, 
that  she  wondered  over  it. 

"You  are  very  fond  of  Candy,  aren't  you?"  she 
said,  a  little  wistfully,  as  they  went  up  the  street. 

"Well,  when  you  think !"  he  reminded  her. 


EVER  AFTER  141 

"But  she  knows  you  better  than  I  do."  Lucy 
sighed,  then  laughed  at  herself.  "I  married  you, 
anyway,"  she  said. 

"You  certainly  did,"  he  assented  gravely.  He 
could  not  play  the  little  game  of  love  to-day. 

As  Lucy  had  said,  they  had  known  each  other  only 
in  the  country,  where  there  was  no  buying  and 
selling.  Their  hour  in  the  Chinese  shops  was 
a  period  of  torture  to  Dana;  for  Lucy  simply 
could  not  buy.  She  was  like  a  timid  wayfarer 
with  a  chasm  to  jump  —  she  came  again  and  again 
to  the  edge,  but  her  heart  always  failed  her  before 
the  leap  could  be  taken.  The  ancestral  voice 
thundered  in  her  ears,  and,  believing  that  it 
spoke  wisdom  and  duty,  she  gave  troubled  heed. 
From  an  embroidered  silken  robe,  tinted  like  an 
opal,  that  would  have  been  a  joy  to  the  end  of 
Candace's  days,  she  came  down,  lingeringly,  dis- 
tressfully, through  hangings  and  table  squares,  to 
a  modest  cushion  cover,  and  Dana,  who  yesterday 
could  have  run  the  affair  with  joyous  authority, 
to-day  stood  at  one  side  and  took  no  part. 

"You  don't  help  me  at  all,"  she  complained. 
"Don't  you  think  she  would  like  that?" 

The  cover  was  pretty  enough,  and  he  said  so,  dryly, 
then  stood  at  the  shop  door  until  she  joined  him, 
the  little  package  in  her  hand. 

"Poor  dear,  he  doesn't  like  shopping,"  she  mur- 


142  EVER  AFTER 

mured,  and  her  cheek  contrived  to  brush  his  shoulder 
as  they  went  out. 

He  would  have  told  Lucy  what  he  had  to  tell  her 
on  their  return  to  the  hotel,  but  recollection  of  an 
appointment  with  Sam  Bynner  made  him  hurry  off 
to  his  old  friend's  rooms  with  the  "Children's  Cru- 
sade" music  under  his  arm.  There,  for  two  absorbed, 
utterly  happy  hours,  he  was  conscious  only  of  his 
work  and  of  his  master's  enthusiasm.  Fragile  as 
Mr.  Bynner  was,  obviously  breaking,  his  spirit  rose 
up  luminously  to  meet  this  call.  The  keen  chal- 
lenge of  his  criticism,  the  breadth  and  certainty 
of  his  knowledge,  gave  Dana  a  thrilled  sense  that 
the  key  to  greatness  lay  there  between  them  in  that 
shabby  old  room. 

"What  a  wonder  you  are,  Sam  Bynner,"  he 
exclaimed,  when  at  last  a  striking  clock  startled 
him  to  his  feet.     "And  where  should  I  be  if  you 

hadn't "      He  laid  his  hands  on  the  other's 

shoulders,  leaving  the  sentence  unfinished  in  words. 

Age  was  visibly  creeping  back  over  the  upright 
figure  that  had  cast  it  off  for  two  triumphant  hours. 
Mr.  Bynner  slipped  into  the  nearest  chair,  letting 
his  head  drop  with  a  fine  air  of  casualness  against 
its  back. 

"It  was  a  great  privilege.  And  this  afternoon  — 
well,  I  feel  that  I  can  go  in  peace,  Dana.  We  have 
succeeded,  you  and  I." 


EVER  AFTER  143 

"Don't  talk  of  going!" 

"No,  of  course  not,  dear  boy."  The  remote, 
detached  smile  of  the  day  before  was  in  his  eyes. 
"But  when  I  do,  you  will  remember  about  Luis?" 

"I  will  give  him  the  chance  that  you  gave  me." 

"Good,  good.  He's  worth  it.  We  will  have  him 
here  some  afternoon.  And  we'll  have  another  session 
with  the  music?" 

"All  you  can  stand.  And  you  must  meet  Lucy." 
The  forgotten  day  reasserted  itself,  chilling  his  joy. 
"I  must  be  off,"  he  said.  "Good  night,  Sam 
Bynner."  They  smiled  over  the  name:  the  small 
Dana  had  never  called  his  teacher  anything  else. 

"Come  soon,  Dana.     The  time  is  so  short." 

"Oh,  we  may  stay  several  weeks,"  said  Dana 
reassuringly  from  the  stairs. 

He  went  back  by  the  same  car  line  that  he  had 
taken  after  his  morning's  adventure.  That  was 
not  nine  hours  ago;  and  yet  he  felt  as  if  a  year  had 
elapsed  since  a  crazy  sentimentalist  had  bought 
inaccessible  real  estate  with  his  wife's  resources. 

"Rich  man?  I'm  not.  I'm  a  boy  with  money 
in  his  pocket,"  he  decided  wearily.  Then  his  hand 
tightened  on  the  package  of  music.  "I've  got 
that,"  he  muttered. 

He  opened  his  door  nerved  to  make  his  confession 
and  to  take  without  flinching  the  surprise,  the 
questions,  the  troubled  warnings  that  he  had  so 


144  EVER  AFTER 

richly  earned.  Lucy  was  lying  down,  with  windows 
darkened,  one  arm  across  her  eyes,  but  she  waved 
her  hand  to  show  that  she  was  awake.  Dana  spoke 
abruptly  from  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"Lucy,  I  made  an  idiot  of  myself  this  morning. 
I  have  hated  to  tell  you.  I  went  off  before  break- 
fast for  a  look  at  my  old  home.  It's  a  shanty  now, 
perched  up  on  a  cliff  —  of  no  earthly  value.  And 
I  bought  it."  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  with 
strained  intentness  from  under  her  arm,  but  she  said 
nothing.  He  plunged  on,  his  tone  dry,  almost 
hostile.  "The  people  who  owned  it  saw  me  coming 
and  thought  I  was  a  buyer;  they  had  old  'For  Sale' 
signs  about.  There  was  a  sick-looking  man  and  his 
wife  and  two  children.  When  I  explained  why 
I  was  there,  they  seemed  —  cut  up.  They  wanted 
to  sell  it  and  go  to  live  in  the  South  for  his  health. 
The  doctor  had  said  —  well,  I  guess  he  had  to  go 
before  winter,  if  it  was  to  be  any  use.  The  woman 
was  unhappy.  Anyway,  I  made  a  crazy  fool  of 
myself.  I  left  a  check  with  the  agent  and  he's 
making  out  the  papers.     I  can't  go  back  on  it  now." 

Lucy  had  risen  on  one  elbow.  "  Why,  you  did 
right,  you  did  exactly  right,"  she  cried.  "  You 
couldn't  have  done  otherwise.  Tell  me  more  —  tell 
me  everything." 

"Lucy,  you  love!  I  thought  you'd  hate  me!" 
He  flung  himself  down  beside  her,  all  impetuous 


EVER  AFTER  145 

boy  again.  "  You  see,  I  was  so  happy,  and  I  felt 
so  —  so  —  I  never  had  had  any  money  before,  and 
it  had  all  gone  to  my  head.  And  they  were  desper- 
ate, Lucy.  If  you  had  seen  them  when  I  said  I 
hadn't  come  to  buy!  Even  the  kids.  And  they 
were  so  nice  —  the  man  didn't  say  a  word.  Just 
went  back  into  the  house.  But  the  poor  woman 
couldn't  help  telling  me,  and  some  way,  I  felt  as  if 
it  might  be  you  —  she  was  rounded,  and  gentle,  and 
just  breaking  with  trouble.  A  few  hundred  dollars 
did  seem  so  little.  And  if  you  could  have  seen  her 
afterward!  But,  my  dearest,  it  was  a  very  bad 
purchase  from  any  other  standpoint.  You  realize 
that?"  He  lifted  his  head  to  look  into  her  eyes, 
and  found  them  wet. 

"What  does  that  matter,  Dana!  I  am  glad, 
glad  you  did  it.    And  you  worried  about  that?" 

"Yes." 

She  drew  him  to  her  with  an  intensity  that  startled 
him.  Then  he  felt  her  tremble,  and  a  sob  shook 
her  from  head  to  foot. 

"Lucy!  What  is  it?"  He  held  her  close,  wrung 
with  distress.     "Tell  me,  love.     Oh,  don't,  don't!" 

"O  Dana!"  She  had  mastered  herself  in  a 
moment,  but  she  could  not  wait  till  her  voice  was 
steady.  "All  day  long  you  have  been  so  —  so 
depressed,  down  underneath  —  oh,  you  were  so 
dear  and  cheerful  on  top,  it  nearly  killed  me!    For 


146  EVER  AFTER 

I  thought  that  perhaps  you  were  bored;  that  taking 
me  about  wasn't  as  much  fun  as  you  had  thought 
it  would  be;  that  perhaps  you  wanted  to  be  alone 
or  to  go  to  your  old  friends.  Oh,  I  didn't  know 
what  to  think!  I  wouldn't  face  it  until  I  was  here 
by  myself.  I  pretended  everything  was  all  right; 
but  after  you  had  gone  and  I  couldn't  pretend  any 
more  —  O  Dana,  I  nearly  died!" 

Her  misery  so  tore  him  that  he  took  refuge  in 
indignant  words,  spoken  between  tokens  of  abject 
tenderness.  "I  never  heard  anything  so  silly. 
Lucy  Cuyler,  you  ought  to  be  shaken!  Don't  you 
know,  don't  you  know  ?"  She  drew  a  long,  broken 
sigh. 

"I  knew  this  morning,  but  it  didn't  help  me  a 
bit  when  you  —  changed.  And  to  think  that  it 
was  all  that  absurd  lot !     O  Dana ! " 

Guilty  knowledge  that  it  was  not  all  the  absurd 
lot  made  him  hide  his  face  in  her  dress,  lest  it  betray 
him.  An  older  man,  or  one  less  in  love,  might  have 
found  words  then  to  tell  her  everything;  but  Dana 
could  as  easily  have  struck  her. 

"Don't  think  about  it  any  more,"  he  implored; 
but  Lucy  could  not  forget  her  terror. 

"I  wish  we  could  run  away,"  she  exclaimed. 
"The  idea  of  going  out  into  those  same  streets 
to-morrow  —  couldn't  we  go  away  now  and  come 
back  later?     Would  that  be  too  cowardly?  " 


EVER  AFTER  147 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  "How  long  would  it 
take  you  to  pack  ?  " 

"Why,  dearest,  I  haven't  unpacked  yet."  She 
had  started  up,  shining  with  eagerness. 

"All  right.     Get  ready  while  I  look  up  trains." 

They  sprang  to  their  feet,  and  Dana  hurried  down 
to  the  office,  so  moved  at  the  way  Lucy  had  taken 
his  rash  act  that  he  forgot  to  wonder  how  he  might 
have  fared  had  he  told  his  tale  in  the  first  enthusi- 
asm of  the  morning.  He  was  glad  to  run  away 
with  her,  glad  to  do  anything  on  earth  that  would 
make  her  happy:  they  could  come  back  later  in  the 
trip  for  their  real  visit  to  the  beloved  town.  In 
twenty  short  minutes,  gay  with  the  rush  of  their 
preparations,  they  and  their  luggage  and  an  armful 
of  roses  were  being  whirled  to  the  southern  express. 

They  had  planned  to  "do"  the  South  like  other 
travellers,  but,  after  a  few  days'  wandering,  fate, 
knowing  a  better  thing  than  that,  led  them  into 
the  Garden  of  Eden  and  left  them  there  for  their 
real  honeymoon.  A  cottage,  perched  between  a 
blue-black  mountain  and  a  radiant  sea,  complete 
even  to  a  piano  and  a  cook,  offered  itself  to  them 
for  a  month.  Twenty-four  hours  later  Dana  was 
working  at  music  in  the  big  living-room  and  Lucy 
was  painting  in  the  garden,  and  the  world  of  cities 
and  of  mortal  hurts  was  wiped  out  and  forgotten. 
Cool  nights, crisp  mornings,hot  noons,  evenings  silver 


148  EVER  AFTER 

splashed  with  stars  without,  ruddy  with  firelight 
within,  swept  them  round  the  seasons  in  miniature 
every  twenty -four  hours:  work  cleverly  drew  them 
apart  in  the  morning,  that  they  might  come  together 
with  a  new  rush  of  joy.  They  strolled  in  the  garden 
and  planned  excursions  that  they  were  too  happy 
to  take;  they  brought  out  books  and  were  too  happy 
to  read  them;  and  the  great  St.  Bernard,  who  com- 
pleted the  perfection  of  their  setting,  thumped  his 
tail  on  the  porch  beside  them  or  laid  his  heavy  head 
on  their  knees  and  loved  them  unspeakably.  Day 
after  day,  life  stood  still  at  one  glorious  point,  and 
they  forgot  that  Paradise  had  every  known  a  serpent. 

A  minute  velocipede  in  a  corner  of  the  porch, 
games,  and  picture  books,  a  battered  rag  doll  and 
an  appealing  little  bed  in  the  room  off  theirs,  recon- 
structed for  them  a  small  personage  whom  Dana 
called  little  Frederick  and  Lucy  as  persistently 
referred  to  as  little  Susan.  They  argued  the  case 
daily,  considering  it  a  point  of  honour  not  to  ask  the 
cook  nor  to  examine  the  fly  leaves  of  the  picture 
books.  The  lack  of  a  second  small  bed  denied  the 
possibility  of  both. 

"Who  ever  heard  of  giving  a  girl  a  velocipede?" 
Dana  was  loud  in  his  certainty.  "She  might  ride 
an  old  one  of  her  brother's;  but  there  is  no  sign  of 
a  big  brother,  is  there?" 

"But   the   doll!    The    doll!"    Lucy    protested, 


EVER  AFTER  149 

her  eyes  gleaming  with  laughter,  but  her  mouth 
as  firm  as  his. 

"That  might  be  left  over  from  babyhood.  Why, 
I  had  one  myself,  and  loved  it  without  shame  — 
slept  with  it  until  I  was  three  years  old.  My  mother 
has  often  said  so.  You  know  where  we  found  it, 
forgotten  in  an  old  bottom  drawer." 

"But  how  do  you  explain  the  pink  hair  ribbon 
I  found  in  the  lilac  bushes?" 

"And  how  do  you  explain  the  broken  cellar  win- 
dow and  the  ball  inside?  Does  a  girl  throw  balls 
at  windows?    I  ask  you  that!" 

Lucy  turned  to  the  St.  Bernard,  stretched  in  the 
path  at  their  feet. 

"Sahib,  if  it  is  a  little  girl,  wag  your  tail,"  she 
coaxed,  and  of  course  the  tail  responded. 

"Sahib,  if  it  is  a  boy,  speak!"  commanded  Dana 
with  a  suddenness  that  brought  an  obedient 
"W'f!"  from  the  great  throat.  Then  they  both 
broke  down  into  laughter.  "  I'll  tell  you  what," 
Dana  went  on;  "suppose  we  make  a  surprise  for 
little  Frederick  down  in  the  garden.  We  might 
build  a  cave  where  those  stones  are,  below  the 
Norfolk  Island  pine." 

"I  think  little  Susan  would  rather  have  a  rockery," 
Lucy  objected,  "with  ferns  growing  on  it." 

"Oh,  no,  she  wouldn't.  Girls  like  caves." 
Dana  lifted  her  bodily  from  the  steps  where  they  had 


150  EVER  AFTER 

been  sitting.  "She  can  call  it  a  grotto;  she'll  love 
that.     Come  on!" 

They  ran  down  the  garden  with  an  enthusiasm 
that  roused  Sahib  to  mammoth  gambols.  Under 
the  flat,  layered  branches  of  the  pine  a  thin  ledge 
of  rock  jutted  out,  suggesting  wonderful  cave  possi- 
bilities, and  they  joyfully  fell  to  work  digging  out 
the  ground  beneath  and  building  up  the  sides  with 
stones.  Lucy  was  forbidden  to  touch  the  heavy 
slabs,  but  was  allowed  to  pave  the  cave's  floor,  and 
started  a  charming  mosaic  of  light  and  dark  stones, 
lying  flat  on  the  sunned  earth  with  arms  bare  to 
the  elbow  and  amusingly  dirty.  Dana,  bare-armed 
also  and  presently  collarless,  toiled  over  his  walls 
with  single-minded  absorption.  Far  below  them, 
through  pine  branches,  glimmered  the  sea, 
and  behind  them  loomed  the  treeless,  lifeless 
mountain,  purple  black  in  the  waning  after- 
noon. The  world  was  all  their  own,  and  labour  was 
good. 

"I  wish  we  had  some  moss  to  plant  about  the 
edge,"  Lucy  said,  after  a  long,  busy  silence.  "Little 
girls  always  love  moss.  And  they  love  tiny  paths. 
We  can  make  one  of  pine  needles,  and  border  it 
with  white  stones,  leading  into  the  cave." 

"Oh,  no.  The  way  in  must  be  secret,  almost 
unfindable,"  Dana  declared.  "There  must  be  a  pile 
of  brush  against  the  outside." 


EVER  AFTER  151 

"Frederick  would  use  that  for  a  bonfire,  first 
thing  you  knew." 

"Then  Frederick  would  get  spanked." 

"Oh,  no,  Dana."  She  straightened  up  in  sudden 
earnestness.  "People  don't  punish  children  bodily 
any  more.  It  isn't  necessary,  and  it  isn't  right. 
That  is  all  being  done  away  with.  Why,  I  never 
was  struck  in  my  life!" 

"Imagine  slapping  you!"  He  laughed,  and,  all 
earthy  as  he  was,  took  her  into  his  arms,  kissing 
every  gentle  curve  of  her  upturned  face.  "It 
would  be  like  boxing  the  ears  of  the  Sistine  Madonna. 
But,  just  the  same,  a  little  Frederick  has  to  mind 
his  daddy  without  arguing,"  he  added,  going  back 
to  his  work.  Lucy,  suddenly  idle,  sat  watching 
him  as  he  loosened  the  edges  of  a  stone  and  pried 
it  up  with  strong,  sure  movements.  The  very  frown 
on  his  absorbed  face  seemed  to  mark  him  the  master 
—  master  of  earth  and  stones,  master  of  the  heart 
that  loved  him.  She  bent  her  head  and  secretly 
kissed  her  wedding  ring. 

There  was  a  boyish  shout  of  triumph.  Dana  let 
his  stone  drop  back  and  dived  for  a  small  object 
that  had  rolled  out  from  under  its  edge.  "Well, 
what  do  you  think  of  that!  Now,  Miss  Lucy,  what 
do  you  say  —  is  it  Frederick  or  Susan?"  And  he 
held  up  before  her  a  weather-beaten  lead  soldier. 

"  Girls  can  play  with  soldiers,"  said  Lucy,  but  feebly. 


152  EVER  AFTER 

"They  can,  but  they  don't.  I'm  going  to  put 
this  up  in  your  room,  to  cure  you  of  obstinacy  and 
of  arguing  against  your  husband.  Little  Susan  and 
lead  soldiers!     I  think  not." 

"Pink  hair  ribbons!"  insisted  Lucy,  in  the  tone 
of  one  who,  though  drowning,  still  cries,  "Scissors!" 
It  was  all  very  foolish,  and  untranslatably  good. 

The  nights  grew  sharper.  Black  clouds  full  of 
rain  occasionally  came  down  over  the  mountain  and 
kept  them  prisoners  for  a  day.  The  last  roses  were 
blown  from  their  stalks.  The  time  for  city  pave- 
ments and  city  lights  was  coming,  but  they  shrank 
from  acknowledging  it,  dimly  aware  that  they  should 
leave  paradise  behind. 

"If  we  are  going  to  Mexico "  Lucy  finally 

attacked  the  subject.  Dana  was  experimenting 
with  chords  on  the  piano,  and  did  not  answer  until 
he  had  achieved  what  he  wanted.  Then  he  spoke 
without  looking  round. 

"Why  go  to  Mexico?" 

"Suppose  we  don't!"  But  her  look  of  bright 
relief  faded  as  he  added,  "I'd  rather  have  the  extra 
time  in  San  Francisco  myself." 

"It  would  be  simpler  to  go  straight  home  from 
here,"  she  said  impulsively. 

"And  not  visit  the  city  at  all?"  He  faced  her 
in  such  consternation  that  she  had  to  retract  and 
explain. 


EVER  AFTER  153 

"Of  course  not,  dear!  We  can't  miss  that  for 
anything.  Only  it  seemed  a  pity  to  go  back  on  our 
tracks  that  long  way.  And  one  does  spend  so  much, 
living  in  hotels." 

The  gate  through  which  they  were  to  pass  out  was 
swinging  back.  Nothing  more  was  said  that  night, 
but  their  lease  of  the  cottage  was  nearly  over,  and 
to  Lucy  the  subject  was  by  no  means  closed.  The 
secret  dread  of  walking  up  to  it  again  lay  upon  her 
so  heavily,  for  twenty-four  hours,  that  she  did  not 
realize  how  Dana's  high  spirits  had  dropped.  They 
separated  as  usual  for  the  morning,  but  little  work 
was  done.  After  lunch  Lucy  made  an  excuse  for 
not  following  him  into  the  garden,  but  presently 
laid  down  her  pretence  of  sewing  and  marched 
herself  out  with  stern  reproaches  for  her  cowardice. 
A  swaying  in  the  branches  of  an  aged  pepper  tree 
and  a  sound  of  hammering  showed  where  Dana  was. 

"I  thought  I'd  make  a  seat  for  little  Frederick," 
he  explained,  as  she  paused  beneath.  "Come  up 
and  see  how  nice  it  is."  Bodily  work  had  pushed 
aside  depression.  He  held  down  his  hand  to  her, 
and  Lucy  mounted  to  the  place  where  a  fork  in  the 
tough,  slender  limbs,  bridged  across,  made  a  rocking 
seat,  half  reclining,  hung  about  with  clusters  of 
pungent,  rose-red  berries  and  milky,  bright  green 
leaves.  She  was  established  in  the  seat,  and  swayed 
approvingly. 


154  EVER  AFTER 

"Little  Susan  will  love  it,"  she  said,  and  they 
smiled  over  the  challenge.  "Suppose  we  go  up  to 
the  house  and  settle  it  now,"  she  added. 

Dana  had  an  inspiration.  "Suppose  we  never 
find  out  at  all !  A  family  ought  to  keep  one  healthy, 
impersonal  quarrel  on  hand:  it  saves  them  from 
quarrelling  about  nearer  things.  When  I  get  on 
your  nerves,  you  can  attack  me  about  Frederick 
and  relieve  your  mind  to  any  extent.  What  do  you 
say?" 

Lucy's  heart  was  thudding  so  uneasily  over  her 
errand  that  her  assent  was  rather  breathless. 

"I  think  that  would  be  beautiful.  I  couldn't 
bear  to  give  up  little  Susan:  she  is  such  a  dear 
little  girl." 

"Frederick's  a  nice  kid,"  said  Dana,  and  then 
a  pause  gave  her  the  dreaded  opportunity.  She 
took  it  bravely. 

"Dearest!  I  have  been  thinking  and  thinking 
about  —  when  we  leave  here.  You  know,  our  lease 
is  up  in  three  days."  He  nodded,  seating  him- 
self on  a  neighbouring  branch,  but  said  nothing. 
"Should  you  mind  very  much  if  we  went  straight 
home?" 

He  was  pulling  off  thin  scales  of  bark  with  minute 
care.  "It  seems  rather  a  pity  —  to  leave  out  the 
chief  thing  we  came  to  see,"  he  said  gravely,  almost 
indifferently. 


EVER  AFTER  155 

"Yes;  but  we  can  come  back  another  year  — 
perhaps  next  year  —  and  make  it  a  visit  all  to  itself. 
And,  of  course,  I  did  see  it  a  little.  We  might  come 
out  some  time  and  take  a  house;  and  then  we  should 
see  everything,  and  meet  your  friends  so  comfortably. 
If  they  are  as  nice  as  Candy,  I  have  got  to  know 
them,  sooner  or  later.  But  now  I  truly  think  we 
ought  to  go  home." 

"Just  as  you  say,  Lucy." 

She  was  flushed  with  relief  at  his  easy  acquies- 
cence. "That  is  dear  of  you!  You  see,  there  is 
that  big  house,  full  of  idle  servants,  and  the  horses 
being  boarded;  it's  bills,  bills,  all  the  time.     And 

when   one   stays   at  hotels "     She   broke  off 

with  a  sigh,  in  her  face  a  strained,  anxious  look,  the 
meaning  of  which  he  had  already  learned.  He 
knew  now  that  she  did  not  spend  a  fourth  of  her 
big  income;  but  there  was  nothing  to  say.  He 
started  up. 

"I  will  go  down  and  telegraph  about  mail,"  he 
said.     "If  you  have  any  messages " 

Ten  minutes  later  he  strode  off,  Sahib  at  his  heels. 
It  was  three  hours  before  they  came  back,  dusty 
and  weary. 

"We  took  a  long  tramp,"  he  explained.  "Oh, 
and  I  engaged  our  passage  while  I  was  at  the  station. 
Have  I  time  for  a  bath?" 

His  face  was  grave  and  tired,  and  Lucy,  troubled, 


156  EVER  AFTER 

only  half  understanding  either  herself  or  him,  believ- 
ing what  she  had  done  to  be  right  and  neces- 
sary, fell  eagerly  on  the  little  chance  to  serve  his 
comfort. 

"I   will   have   dinner   kept  back,"  she  said,  "as 
long  as  you  like.    Don't  hurry,  dear ! " 


CHAPTER  SIX 

The  music  room  offered  a  wide  stretch  of  glass 
to  the  swirling  snow,  but  its  panes  had  been  care- 
fully doubled,  and  below  it  ran  an  array  of  heating 
pipes  that  would  have  seemed  exaggerated  to  any 
one  unacquainted  with  the  wind  that  comes  over 
the  Back  Bay.  Heavy  velvet  curtains  hung  ready 
to  be  pulled  across  as  soon  as  the  light  failed,  and 
generous  logs  in  the  open  fireplace  were  prepared 
to  add  their  picture  of  warmth  to  the  hardly  won 
fact.  It  was  a  pleasant  room,  made  harmonious 
by  use  and  time,  though  its  furnishings  would  have 
warred  had  they  been  new.  No  Cuyler  ever  gave 
up  —  or,  if  possible,  moved  —  a  piece  of  furniture, 
so  the  taste  of  several  generations  was  represented, 
buttoned  satin  and  gold  legs  lying  down  with  puffy 
leather  on  spiral  springs,  carved  Renaissance  neigh- 
bouring peacefully  with  weathered  Mission.  If  a 
decorator  would  have  shuddered,  any  home-lover 
must  have  felt  it  mellow  and  inviting,  imbued  with 
a  reality  impossible  to  rooms  that  are  made  up  on 
paper  and  carried  out  by  rule.  Four  o'clock  had 
just  struck,  but  the  light  was  already  so  dim  that 

157 


158  EVER  AFTER 

Dana,  working  at  a  table  drawn  up  beside  the 
piano,  had  to  bend  close  to  his  manuscript.  He 
glanced  vaguely  at  the  lamp,  but  would  not  stop 
to  light  it.  His  eyes  looked  tired,  but  his  mouth 
had  taken  a  line  of  dogged  persistence. 

The  last  two  months  had  wrought  a  subtle  change 
in  Dana  Malone.  Candace,  watching  him  keenly 
during  a  brief  visit,  had  realized  that  one  familiar 
trait  had  disappeared:  he  no  longer  made  excited 
discoveries.  His  old,  "Do  you  know,  Candy!"  and 
the,  "I  tell  you!"  with  emphatic  forefinger  had 
vanished,  and  in  their  place  had  come  a  new  abstract- 
edness. It  was  as  if  one  absorbing  major  discovery 
had  swallowed  all  the  minor  ones.  Lucy  com- 
plained to  her  family  that  he  worked  all  the  time, 
but  was  obviously  a  little  proud  of  her  grievance. 
They  had  accepted  Dana  with  a  better  grace  than 
might  have  been  expected  —  perhaps  from  a  general 
conviction  that  Lucy  was  bound  to  do  something 
queer,  anyway;  and  though  the  younger  members 
privately  referred  to  her  as  Mrs.  Mulloney  and 
found  therein  much  cause  for  laughter,  they  all 
liked  Dana  as  well  as  they  could  have  liked  any 
one  who  had  grown  up  in  a  different  tradition 
and  whose  forebears  had  not  attended  school 
with  their  forebears.  Yet  neither  their  well- 
meant  tolerance  nor  the  friendly  advances  of 
brother  musicians  could  reach  Dana's   submerged 


EVER  AFTER  159 

attention:  he  seemed  to  have  no  interest  for  new 
ties. 

The  door  opened  to  admit  a  head  and  a  protest. 

"Are  you  never  going  to  stop,  Dana?"  Then, 
seeing  how  dim  the  light  was,  Lucy  came  in  to  take 
charge  of  the  situation.  Her  arms  were  full  of 
packages,  which  she  dropped  on  a  sofa.  "My  dear 
boy,  you  can't  see!  Wait  till  I  light  a  lamp.  Do 
you  want  to  ruin  your  eyes?" 

Lucy  was  changed,  too.  As  she  busied  herself 
with  the  lamp,  her  cheerfulness  was  uneasy,  as 
though  it  stoutly  denied  an  inner  fear;  her  briskness 
could  not  hide  the  fact  that  she  was  covertly  watch- 
ing him.  He  leaned  back  with  a  stretch  of  weary 
arms,  letting  his  eyelids  drop  defensively  over  his 
eyes. 

"It  is  dark,"  he  admitted.  fr 

When  she  had  arranged  the  L^hts  to  suit  her, 
she  paused  by  his  chair,  pretending  to  study  the 
manuscript. 

"How  goes  it?"  she  asked.  She  had  picked  up 
several  of  his  phrases,  and  they  contrasted  so 
curiously  with  her  superfine  personality  and  gently 
bred  voice  that  Candace,  during,  her  visit,  had  more 
than  once  been  moved  to  unexplained  laughter. 

"All  right,  I  suppose."  He  dropped  his  head 
against  her  arm.     "I'm  too  tired  to  know." 

"Why  do  you  work  so  hard?"     The  question  was 


160  EVER  AFTER 

only  a  reproach  at  first,  but,  when  he  did  not  answer, 
she  repeated  it  with  startled  emphasis:  "Dana, 
why  do  you  work  so  hard?"  His  eyes  fell  away 
from  her  troubled  look. 

"Well,  for  one  thing,  I  think  I  ought  to  have  some 
output  to  show  —  soon,"  he  offered  tentatively. 
"Don't  you  think  yourself  that  I'd  better  let  the 
family  see ?" 

"But  the  famir  -  is  all  right.  Why,  they  have 
been  so  nice  to  yoa,  Dana!" 

"No  —  have  they?"  with  a  feeble  attempt  at 
humour. 

"Why,  my  dearj  they  have  all  had  us  to  dinner, 
and  asked  you  to ,  play  —  I  think  they  have  been 
very  nice  indeed."? 

"So  they  have  Only  —  well,  we  do  it  a  little 
differently  at  hoi  le:  that's  all.  It  would  be  per- 
fectly natural  if  tuey  hated  me,"  he  added  indiffer- 
ently.    "I  should  think  they  would." 

"Cousin  Susie  said  you  had  a  very  charming 
smile  and  manner,"  Lucy  insisted.  "Aunt  Mar- 
garet was  a  little  short,  but,  Dana  dear,  that  was 
your  own  fault."  - 

"I  only  said  thatMt.  Vernon  Street  was  steep!" 

"I  know;  but  she  has  lived  on  Mt.  Vernon  Street 
all  her  life,  and  her  people  before  her,  and  it  was 
like  criticising  her  own  home  to  her,  don't  you  see?" 

"But  —  but "    Then  Dana  choked  down  his 


EVER  AFTER  161 

sputtering  protest.  "I'm  a  Yahoo,"  he  murmured 
contritely.     What  else  mustn't  I  say?" 

"You  shall  say  anything  on  earth  you  like!" 
She  was  suddenly  all  on  his  side.  "I  am  so  proud 
of  you,  Dana.  And  when  you  play,  you  are  so 
beautiful,  I  can't  take  my  eyes  off  you!" 

The  outburst  moved  him  to  laughter,  but  it 
also  cheered  and  refreshed  him.  Presently  they  lit 
the  fire  —  there  were  four  able-bodied  servants  gos- 
siping in  the  basement,  but  Lucy  rarely  rang  a 
bell  —  and  sat  down  on  the  hearth  rug  with  her 
packages  between  them.  She  had  been  Christmas 
shopping,  and  displayed  her  gifts  with  a  satisfaction 
too  secure  to  be  critical  of  his  response.  A  bank- 
rupt sale  had  furnished  Irish  lace  for  several  cousins, 
an  unimportant  defect  had  made  a  bronze  inkstand 
exactly  the  thing  for  Aunt  Lizzie,  while  a  chocolate 
pot  of  Royal  Worcester,  miraculously  reduced,  had 
been  discovered  for  Cousin  Susie,  who  was  devoted 
to  china. 

"I  had  to  give  her  something  very  nice,  she  was 
so  dear  about  living  with  me,"  Lucy  explained, 
holding  up  the  pot  for  admiration.  "Wasn't  it 
luck  that  they  would  sell  it  without  the  cups?" 

"But  I  should  think  it  needed  the  cups;"  Dana 
spoke  worriedly. 

"Oh,  but  they  are  very  expensive.  Perhaps  I 
will  give  them  to  her  next  year."    And  she  turned 


162  EVER  AFTER 

contentedly  to  a  big  parcel  in  which  many  small 
articles  had  been  sent.  There  were  swirling  paper 
knives  of  greenish  metal  that  left  a  brassy  odour  on 
the  hands,  crudely  embroidered  neckwear  sewn  into 
unlaunderable  shapes,  blue  and  green  jewellery  of 
the  kind  that  has  been  called  home-made,  glass 
bottles  with  thin  silver-gilt  tops,  brocade  frames  for 
photographs  —  a  lapful  of  the  things  that  must  be 
created  solely  as  gifts,  since  no  man  or  woman 
would  ever  dream  of  buying  them  for  personal 
use. 

"They  are  only  Christmas  tokens,  you  see;"  she 
was  beginning  to  be  depressed  by  his  lack  of  enthu- 
siasm.    "They  don't  pretend  to  be  anything  else." 

"But  why  not?"  he  asked  impulsively.  "It 
would  be  so  much  more  fun  to  give  them  things 
they'd  love,  Lucy!" 

"But,  my  dear  boy,  you  don't  realize  the  number 
of  them.  Look  at  that!"  She  held  up  a  long  list 
before  him,  and  believed  him  convinced,  since  he 
said  nothing  further.  "I  have  a  little  thing  here 
for  Candy,"  she  went  on.  "Of  course,  the  cushion 
cover  was  her  real  present:  she  wouldn't  expect 
anything  more.  But  I  wanted  something  for 
Christmas  Day.  Here  it  is.  Shall  I  say  it  is  from 
us  both?" 

Dana  took  the  little  red  blotting  pad,  still  marked 
$1.10,  and  slowly  turned  it  over  before  eyes  that 


EVER  AFTER  163 

did  not  seem  to  be  looking  at  it.  Then  he  laid  it 
down  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"No,  don't  say  it  is  from  me,  too,"  he  said,  return- 
ing to  his  work.  "I'll  find  her  something  —  or 
write  her  a  letter." 

"If  there  is  anything  here  that  you  would  like 

to  give "     Lucy  motioned  generously  to  her 

whole  assortment,  but  he  would  not  look. 

"Thanks,  I'll  find  —  something,"  he  said  absently. 
Believing  that  genius  burned,  she  sat  very  still, 
not  even  gathering  up  her  possessions  lest  the  sound 
disturb  him.  She  held  his  work  always  in  passionate 
respect. 

Dana  had  lately  put  aside  his  ambitious  suite 
and  thrown  himself  headlong  into  the  Celtic  songs 
that  had  come  down  to  him  with  his  talent  from 
his  grandfather.  They  had  grown  wonderfully 
under  his  hand,  taking  on  a  depth  and  richness  that 
would  have  startled  old  Brian  Malone,  fiddling  with 
easy  sentiment  for  an  earnestly  staring  little  boy. 
Perhaps,  if  Dana  had  been  wholly  happy,  he  could 
not  have  done  so  well.  He  was  bent  over  the 
manuscript  now,  but  he  was  not  working.  From 
behind  his  hand  he  could  see  Lucy's  unconscious 
profile,  rosy  with  firelight,  the  earnest  sweetness 
of  her  mouth,  the  gravity  and  beauty  that  lay 
about  her  eyes  —  and,  over  all,  some  new  shadow. 
Even  sitting  on  a  hearth  rug,  she  kept  her  youthful- 


164  EVER  AFTER 

princess  quality,  her  beloved  little  air  of  decorum: 
so  fine  she  looked,  so  fragrant,  so  ennobled  with 
high  meanings,  and  yet,  someway,  so  touched  with 
pathos,  that  presently  he  came  abruptly  back  to 
her. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  on  all  the  earth?"  he 
asked,  his  hands  on  her  shoulders.  She  lifted 
smiling  lips,  and  the  troubled  question,  the  secret 
strain  of  a  dread  stoutly  denied,  faded  as  he  kissed 
her. 

"You  do  love  me,"  she  said  quickly. 

"Yes."  Oaths  could  not  have  made  the  simple 
assent  more  convincing.  She  clung  to  him  with 
breathless  intensity.    Then, 

"Play  'Mary  Alone,'"  she  whispered. 

She  did  not  ask  for  it  often:  it  had  meant  too 
much  to  both  of  them.  At  the  first  bar,  she  could 
feel  the  cool  breath  of  dark  June  woods  on  her  face 
and  her  heart  throbbing  against  her  side;  the  dim 
path  that  had  led  her  to  the  full  glory  of  life  was 
under  her  daring  feet.  As  Dana  played  it,  its  wild 
melancholy  usually  fell  on  her  ears  like  an  exquisite 
refinement  of  joy,  a  longing  that  is  on  the  verge 
of  fulfilment,  and  she  leaned  back  now  with  closed 
eyes  to  let  it  take  her  where  it  would.  But  presently 
her  eyes  opened  with  a  start.  He  was  playing  it 
with  new  meaning,  and  its  sadness  was  no  longer 
the  mere  veil  of  joy.     Deep  was  calling  unto  deep, 


EVER  AFTER  165 

and  Lucy,  hearing,  grew  frightened  at  the  blind 
appeal.  A  darkness  that  she  had  never  before 
fully  seen  lay  on  his  face. 

"Dana!  Nothing  is  as  sad  as  that!"  she  cried 
as  his  hands  fell  away  from  the  keys.  "Oh,  don't 
play  it  that  way  —  don't!    Oh,  what  is  it?" 

The  look  vanished  and  he  laughed  at  her,  swinging 
into  an  Irish  jig. 

"I  only  tried  it  in  another  key,  little  Lucy," 
he  apologized.     "I  won't  do  it  again." 

He  was  so  cheerful,  so  contrite,  that  sne  had  to 
accept  his  explanation;  but  the  moment  was  not 
obliterated.  She  wrapped  her  packages  in  silence, 
then  laid  them  down  with  a  sigh. 

"What  shall  we  give  each  other  for  Christmas?" 
she  asked  idly. 

"Silver  and  gold.  Jewels.  Fur  coats  and  auto- 
mobiles. Everything  heart  can  wish."  He  flung 
it  out  with  a  laugh  that  hid  a  touch  of  impatience. 

"No;  but  I  mean  seriously,"  she  urged.  "Do 
you  like  fur-lined  gloves?" 

"No,"  said  Dana,  turning  back  to  the  piano. 

"You  should  say,  'No,  thank  you,  Lucy.'  Isn't 
there  some  music  you  want?" 

"I  don't  believe  so  —  thank  you,  Lucy." 

"You  are  very  unsatisfactory.  Do  give  me  a 
suggestion." 

Dana  was  making  discordant  sounds  with  the 


166  EVER  AFTER 

keys.  "Why  not  a  necktie?"  he  asked,  and  then 
was  ashamed  of  himself. 

"But  you  have  so  many,"  she  answered  quite 
simply.  "Besides,  that  would  not  be  enough. 
What  shall  you  give  me?" 

"A  bottle  of  cologne  and  a  box  of  candy." 

"Is  that  a  joke?" 

He  rose.  "My  dear  Lucy,"  he  explained,  trying 
to  speak  lightly,  "giving  you  handsome  presents 
with  your  own  money  doesn't  seem  to  be  quite 
suitable;  and  I  have  exactly  twelve  dollars  of  my 
very  own  in  the  world.  It  came  from  the  sale  of 
my  furniture  and  effects,  after  I  left  New  York. 
You  are  therefore  going  to  get  exactly  twelve  dollars' 
worth  of  Christmas  from  me  —  no  more  and  no  less." 

"Twelve  dollars  will  buy  a  very  nice  present 
indeed,"  she  declared.  "But  the  money  is  yours, 
dearest,  just  as  much  as  it  is  mine.  You  must  not 
speak  as  if  it  weren't.  You  have  only  to  take  what 
you  want." 

"Good  little  Lucy,"  was  the  vague  answer,  and 
he  turned  as  though  to  leave  the  room,  then  came 
slowly  back.  "Do  you  know,  my  dear,"  he  began, 
standing  over  her  with  hands  in  his  pockets,  "  I 
think  perhaps  a  man  has  to  earn  his  own  living? 
I  didn't  suppose  it  would  matter,  so  long  as  I 
worked,  and  we  loved  each  other.  But  I'm  afraid 
it  does."    No  casual  tone  or  careless  attitude  could 


EVER  AFTER  167 

mask  the  momentousness  of  what  he  said;  and  the 
secret  fright  was  out  in  Lucy's  lifted  face. 

"But  that  isn't  fair,  Dana!"  she  broke  in,  so 
hotly  that  he  paused  in  surprise.  "No,  it  is  not 
fair!  My  dear  boy,  you  don't  always  know  the 
value  of  money;  and  because  I  do,  because  I've 
had  to  speak  about  it  —  ah,  it  is  not  fair  to  be  so 
sensitive,  to  make  that  a  barrier  between  us!  I 
have  learned  a  hundred  things  from  you,  so  gladly. 
Why  shouldn't  you  learn  that  one  thing  from  me?" 
The  protest  must  have  been  long  in  her  heart,  to 
come  rushing  out  so  fluently.  Dana  stood  helpless 
and  miserable  before  it. 

"We  see  things  —  differently,  Lucy.  We  can't 
help  it.  I  want  to  go  to  work.  Don't  make  it 
hard  for  me."  His  gentleness,  and  the  note  of  pain 
in  his  voice,  took  the  fight  out  of  her  for  the  moment. 
She  drooped  bodily. 

"What  would  you  do?"  she  asked  when  the 
silence  had  become  unbearable. 

"Nothing  very  big  or  conspicuous.  Perhaps  I 
can  get  music  criticism  to  do  for  one  of  the  papers  — 
and  you  would  like  going  to  the  concerts.  I  might 
take  a  pupil  or  two.  I  shan't  try  to  help  you  run 
the  house!"  He  tried  to  lighten  the  tension  with 
a  laugh.  "But  I  must  at  least  fill  my  own  pockets. 
I  guess  it's  a  law  of  nature,  dear,  and  we're  up 
against  it." 


168  EVER  AFTER 

"And  all  the  time  you  weren't  doing  those  things, 
you  would  be  at  your  music,"  she  said  heavily.  "1 
should  see  nothing  at  all  of  you." 

He  dropped  down  beside  her,  taking  her  into  his 
arms.  "But,  when  we  are  together,  won't  it  be 
better  than  it  has  been  lately?"  he  asked  against 
her  cheek.  "We  haven't  been  very  happy,  have 
we?  With  things  frank  and  settled  between  us"  — 
he  drew  her  closer  and  closer  —  "isn't  three  minutes 
of  this  better  than  half  a  day  of  strained  politeness?  " 

She  turned  her  face  away  from  his.  "It  is  not 
fair,"  she  said  unsteadily.  "It  isn't  big  of  you. 
If  you  can't  take,  you  can't  give  —  you  said  that 
yourself.  And  I  won't  consent  to  it  —  I  won't 
forgive  it."  She  broke  away  from  him  and  ran 
out  of  the  room. 

Dana  did  not  go  to  work.  For  three  days  the 
issue  lay  silent  between  them,  taking  the  light  out  of 
the  sunshine,  the  savour  out  of  their  food,  the  joy 
out  of  their  love.  Lucy  was  very  cheerful,  very 
interested  in  everything  that  came  up,  determined 
to  prove  that  she  stood  firmly  planted  on  common 
sense  and  that  the  heart  in  her  side  was  not  one 
fathomless  ache.  Dana,  not  belonging  to  the  sex 
that  pretends,  was  frankly  melancholy,  and  gave 
her  little  help  in  her  effort  after  a  bright  surface.  It 
was  she  who  opened  the  topic  again,  marching  herself 
bravely  up  to  it  after  dinner  on  the  third  night. 


EVER  AFTER  169 

"Have  you  given  up  that  idea  of  going  to  work, 
Dana?"  she  asked,  standing  in  front  of  him,  her 
coffee  cup  in  her  hand. 

"Oh,  no.  I  have  looked  about  a  little,"  he 
admitted.     "I  haven't  found  anything  yet." 

"But  have  you  realized  all  sides  of  it?"  She  was 
determined  to  appear  entirely  calm  and  logical  and 
mature.  "For  one  thing,  dear,  we  have  a  number  of 
engagements  ahead.  Suppose  we  had  to  throw  over 
some  one's  dinner  because  you  had  a  concert  to  write 
up?     They  wouldn't  understand:  they  couldn't." 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  he  assented,  so  spiritlessly 
that  she  grew  bolder. 

"And  the  wastefulness  of  it,  Dana!  Why,  when 
you  worked  nearly  all  the  time  in  New  York  what 
did  you  earn?     Wasn't  it  just  a  few  dollars?" 

"Yes." 

"Then,  with  only  a  part  of  your  time  —  can't 
you  see  that  it  wouldn't  be  worth  while?" 

"Perhaps;"  he  seemed  to  have  physical  difficulty 
in  producing  his  voice.  "Not  worth  while  as  a 
financial  proposition,  I  admit.  But,  Lucy"  —  for  an 
instant  his  clouded  eyes  looked  straight  into  hers  — 
"I  want  to." 

The  flesh  visibly  softened  toward  him,  but  her 
mind  stood  firm. 

"But  you  can't  want  to  do  things  when  you  know 
better,  can  you,  my  dearest  boy?" 


170  EVER  AFTER 

"I  don't  know  better.  I  think  it  would  be  good 
for  me.     I'd  be  nicer  about  the  house." 

"But  that  is  absurd.  And  it's  unkind."  Her 
voice  quivered.  "Refusing  to  use  what  I  have  to 
give  you  —  it's  refusing  me,  don't  you  see?"  The 
troubled  woman  in  her  suddenly  overrode  the  calm 
logician.  Turning  swiftly  from  him,  she  put  down 
her  cup  and  walked  away,  her  palms  driven  against 
her  cheeks.     "  I'm  losing  you ! " 

The  frightened  whisper  broke  through  his  apathy 
and  touched  him  on  the  quick.  He  could  not  stand 
out  against  it.  Shame  at  having  so  hurt  her  swept 
him  to  his  feet,  and  he  drew  her  back  to  the  big 
chair  with  remorseful  vehemence. 

"I'm  sorry,  I'm  sorry,"  he  stammered,  his  face 
buried  in  her  dress.  "I  love  you,  Lucy  —  I'm 
sorry.  I  won't  do  anything  you  hate.  Please 
forgive  me." 

Though  she  clung  to  him,  she  would  not  accept 
victory  except  as  a  triumph  of  the  right. 

"It  isn't  because  I  hate  it,"  she  insisted.  "That 
would  be  no  reason  —  oh,  I  love  you;  I  would  die 
for  you!  But  because  it  would  be  foolish  and 
wrong-headed,  Dana." 

"All  right,  dear,"  he  assented  humbly,  his  lips 
against  hers. 

The  sunshine  was  back  in  the  world  for  Lucy, 
but  Dana,  after  a  day  or  two  of  restored  cheerfulness, 


EVER  AFTER  171 

began  to  feel  dissatisfied,  even  a  little  ashamed. 
He  could  not  have  done  differently;  yet  his  manhood 
was  resentful.  The  shears  of  Delilah  seemed  to  be 
sounding  in  his  ears.  A  desire  to  assert  himself 
interfered  with  his  work  and  made  him  restless. 
Two  days  before  Christmas  he  went  downtown 
with  determination  in  his  gait;  yet,  after  all,  he 
came  back  empty-handed.  For  how  could  he  send 
Candace  a  lovely  old  necklace  when  Lucy  had 
already  sent  her  a  small  red  blotting  pad?  And  the 
same  restraint  held  him  with  others :  an  outer  loyalty 
to  his  wife's  acts  was  demanded  of  him,  and  tied 
his  hands.  He  relieved  his  feelings  by  giving  a 
dollar  to  a  whining  beggar  woman  at  his  own  door, 
and  was  not  sorry  that  Lucy,  coming  out,  should 
catch  him  in  the  act. 

"My  dear  boy!"  she  protested  from  the  step 
above  him.  "She  is  an  old  impostor.  I  have  seen 
her  begging  for  years." 

"Of  course  she  is,"  he  assented  cheerfully.  "But 
don't  you  suppose  that  even  impostors  get  cold 
and  hungry  sometimes,  just  like  honest  people?" 
To  his  surprise,  she  laughed. 

"I  think  that  woman  probably  owns  blocks  of 
houses;  but  you  are  a  love,"  she  said,  smiling  down 
on  him  so  warmly  that  he  was  ashamed  of  his 
petulant  act,  ashamed  that  she  should  read  beauty 
into  it.    He  put  his  hands  into  her  muff. 


172  EVER  AFTER 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked. 

"To  sit  with  Aunt  Lizzie.  She  is  so  forlorn; 
her  rheumatism  hasn't  let  her  out  for  a  week." 

"Come  and  sit  with  me  instead." 

"Ah,  I  can't  disappoint  her,  sweetheart.  She 
counts  on  me." 

"So  do  I.    I'm  lonely.    And  I  want  a  good  time." 

"What  kind  of  a  good  time?" 

"I  want  to  do  something  loud  and  spectacular 
for  somebody  who  needs  it  awfully." 

"My  dear!  It  has  been  subscriptions  and  dona- 
tions and " 

"Oh,  I  know:  checks  by  mail.  For  institutions. 
That  is  great,  of  course.  But  I  mean  something 
close  up,  to  one  person,  so  that  we  get  a  glow  out 
of  it.     I  want  to  feel  Christmasy." 

"Do  you  mean  the  ragged  child  with  its  nose 
against  the  shop  window?" 

"Not  at  all.  I  propose  that  we  dash  on  to  New 
York  and  buy  a  picture  of  Palmer  Jacks  —  and  all 
of  little  Willing's  pottery.     What  do  you  say?  " 

She  did  not  dream  that  he  really  meant  it.  "I  say 
that  you  are  quite  mad,  but  a  love,  just  the  same," 
she  assured  him. 

"But,  Lucy,  really,  why  couldn't  we?"  he  per- 
sisted. "If  the  things  are  too  bad  to  give  away, 
we  can  put  them  in  a  guest-room,  you  know!" 
There  was  a  gentle  gibe  in  that,  but  she  did  not  heed 


EVER  AFTER  173 

it.  A  worried  line  was  creeping  about  her  lips. 
"Just  think  how  bursting  happy  it  would  make 
them,"  he  begged.  "Can't  you  see  little  Will- 
ing   ?      I  know  he  has  an    awful  time.     Oh, 

come  on,  Looshy!" 

Her  brightness  had  faded.  "But  so  many  people 
have  awful  times,  Dana.  There  is  no  sense  in 
helping  one  individual;"  she  spoke  almost  impa- 
tiently. "If  we  could  do  something  for  all  the 
Willings  —  but  we  can't.  Now  I  must  go,  dear. 
Will  you  come  with  me?" 

"No,  I  think  not,"  he  said,  and  shut  the  door 
on  her  in  troubled  humility. 

"Am  I  a  fool?  A  crazy  sentimentalist? "  he  asked 
of  his  silent,  sober  home.  "People  who  know  how 
to  be  rich  —  don't  they  ever  go  out  and  make  one 
person  roaring  happy,  just  for  the  joy  of  it?  Isn't 
that  legitimate?"  The  house  had  no  answer  for 
him;  big  as  it  was,  it  seemed  to  cramp  him.  He 
foresaw  years  in  it  with  his  real  self  pacing  behind 
bars,  silent  but  unsubdued,  and  a  despairing  anger 
swept  over  him.  "I  want  to  be  my  kind!  I  want 
to  do  things  my  way!"  he  muttered. 

Lucy's  parents  had  always  taken  Christmas  dinner 
with  the  Stephen  Cuylers.  Other  branches  of  the 
family  assembled  at  the  Mortimer  Cuylers',  where 
there  was  more  youth  and  merriment,  but  Lucy 


174  EVER  AFTER 

was  unquestioningly  loyal  to  the  tradition  of  the 
past.  The  dinner  was  held  at  the  somewhat  un- 
genial  hour  of  three  o'clock,  and  they  turned  reluc- 
tantly from  the  bells  and  brightness  outside  to  the 
engulfing  gloom  of  the  lofty  front  hall.  The  dark, 
solemn  old  house  had  put  a  prim  wreath  or  two 
in  its  windows,  where  they  hung  like  a  respectful 
echo  of  Aunt  Margaret's  earrings.  The  older, 
more  conservative  element  of  the  family  was  repre- 
sented, for  the  more  brilliant  or  worldly  members 
went  firmly  to  the  Mortimer  Cuylers',  and,  but  for 
two  "girls"  of  withered  youth,  only  Dana  and  Lucy 
were  under  forty.  The  assembled  guests,  sitting 
or  standing  about  the  drawing-room,  showed  to 
Western  eyes  a  curious  shyness  with  one  another. 
They  were  all  related  and  had  grown  up  or  old 
together,  yet  a  pall  of  self-consciousness  lay  over 
them.  They  went  out  to  dinner  awkwardly,  over- 
smiling,  with  repeated  steppings  on  trailing  skirts. 
After  the  stimulation  of  finding  their  places  was 
used  up,  silences  settled  chillingly  down  at  every 
pause. 

Aunt  Margaret  always  sat  like  a  policeman  at 
the  gates  of  conversation,  challenging,  correcting, 
and  rebuking,  an  attitude  which  would  naturally 
check  its  flow  in  her  immediate  neighbourhood; 
but,  even  at  a  safe  distance,  there  was  no  movement. 
Brief  remarks  were  offered,  shy  questions  and  smiling 


EVER  AFTER  175 

answers,  but  no  social  fluid  was  generated  to  blend 
the  company;  the  elements  stayed  dry  and  distinct. 
Lucy,  obliged  to  speak  across  the  table,  blushed  to 
her  eyes.  For  the  most  part,  with  slightly  bent 
heads  and  constrained  elbows,  they  ate. 

Had  it  been  a  rural  shyness,  Dana,  out  of  his 
good  humour  and  his  inborn  ease,  could  have  caught 
hold,  flung  topics  and  gayety  right  and  left  until 
everybody  was  taking  part  and  the  day  was  saved. 
But  instinct  told  him  that  this  urban  shyness  was 
of  another  breed,  and  that  the  young  outsider  who 
attempted  to  come  to  its  aid  would  be  smartly  put 
in  his  place  and  frozen  there.  It  might  even  be 
a  part  of  the  firm,  "We  do  it,"  which  had  more  than 
once  dropped  squarely  across  the  path  of  his  in- 
quiries. He  tried  to  content  his  soul  with  the 
excellence  of  the  food,  but  the  desire  to  do  some- 
thing —  even  to  break  something  —  grew  on  him 
intolerably. 

Aunt  Lizzie,  on  his  right,  had  her  deaf  ear  toward 
him,  so,  after  the  whole  table  had  heard  him  repeat 
three  times  the  hope  that  her  rheumatism  was 
better,  he  turned  exasperatedly  to  Cousin  Amy  on 
his  left.  But  Cousin  Amy  considered  it  queer  for 
a  man  to  be  a  musician,  and  much  worse  than  queer 
for  him  to  have  no  producible  antecedents,  and 
though  she  responded  pleasantly  enough,  she  main- 
tained her  principles  by  keeping  her  face  averted. 


176  EVER  AFTER 

It  is  hard  to  talk  with  enthusiasm  to  a  profile,  and 
Dana,  abandoning  that,  sent  a  glance  of  despair 
down  the  table  to  Lucy. 

It  was  in  that  moment  that  a  new  knowledge  was 
given  to  Dana  Malone:  he  saw  with  his  own  eyes 
the  solidarity  of  Family.  Lucy  sat  as  the  others 
sat,  her  shyness  was  their  shyness,  her  reserves, 
scruples,  complications  were  woven  through  them 
all:  her  relation  to  him  was  incidental  compared  to 
the  bond  that  held  her  to  them.  Between  him 
and  them  lay  a  hopeless  gulf:  they  could  never 
really  understand  one  another;  what  meant  an 
anguish  of  boredom  to  him  had  some  obscure  cere- 
monial value  to  them,  and  his  natural  methods  of 
enjoyment  would  be  wholly  alien  to  their  sympathies. 
Lucy  had  crossed  to  his  side  for  a  few  free  and 
joyous  months,  but,  to  his  dismayed  glance,  it  seemed 
now  that  they  were  inexorably  taking  her  back  to 
themselves.  This  repressed,  anxious,  dutiful  guest 
bore  no  relation  to  the  blossoming,  expanding  girl 
to  whom  he  had  made  love  on  the  hills  of  Sky 
Farm.  She  was  not  comfortable,  but  she  was  not 
finding  the  occasion  horrible,  as  he  was.  She  felt 
no  rebellion.  Twenty  years  from  now  she  would 
be  sitting  there,  just  as  timidly  sweet  and  dutiful, 

and    he But    there    his    smothered    protest 

burst  up  through  the  impassive  surface.  Without 
realizing  what  he  did,  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 


EVER  AFTER  177 

"A  toast?'*  said  Aunt  Margaret  blandly,  a  hand 
toward  her  glass.  Her  voice  and  the  startled  faces 
about  him  brought  him  back  to  his  senses.  It  was 
a  dreadful  moment,  but  he  managed  to  take  up 
a  glass. 

"Merry  Christmas!"  he  said  feebly,  and  dropped 
down  into  his  seat  again,  holding  back  a  blush  by 
sheer  force  of  will. 

They  responded  courteously,  a  little  surprised, 
yet  ready  to  accept  differences  of  custom  from  him. 
And  the  ceremony  amused  and  relaxed  them. 
Conversation  flowed  more  easily  after  that.  By 
dessert,  they  were  all  talking,  except  Dana,  who 
wearily  leaned  back  and  watched  them  with  apa- 
thetic eyes. 

It  was  evening  when  they  left,  other  relatives 
setting  them  down  at  their  door.  Lucy,  still  fresh 
and  alert,  kept  her  air  of  content  even  when  they 
were  free  and  alone  again. 

"It  went  off  very  well,  didn't  it?"  she  said, 
preceding  him  up  the  stairs.  Dana  turned  aside 
into  the  music  room  on  a  muttered  excuse  and  shut 
the  door. 

"I'm  common,"  he  said  with  shut  teeth.  "Com- 
mon! There  are  Irish  jigs  in  my  blood.  My  God, 
if  I  have  to  sit  through  that  again,  I'll  die!" 

The  domestic  life  that  he  had  foreseen,  the  easy 
hospitality,   the  singing   and   laughter,   the  spon- 


178  EVER  AFTER 

taneous  pushing  back  of  rugs  for  a  dance,  the  times 
of  intensified  care  and  tenderness  and  the  joyous 
baby  presences  —  "my  son,"  "my  little  girl,"  — 
all  his  dream  of  home  came  back  in  mocking  con- 
trast to  the  smothering  formality  of  that  afternoon. 
The  silence  of  his  own  house  seemed  to  foreshadow 
years  as  socially  arid,  as  secretly  melancholy.  He 
began  to  play,  so  stormily  that  presently  he  found 
a  figure  in  a  kimono  standing  anxiously  beside  him. 
The  question  in  his  wife's  eyes  had  to  be  met.  He 
was  ashamed  when  he  saw  how  he  had  troubled  her. 

"Lucy,  where's  our  little  Frederick?  And  our 
little  Susan?"  he  asked. 

"I  know!  They  are  very  slow  about  it,  aren't 
they!"  She  curled  down  relievedly  on  the  bench 
beside  him. 

"Some  way  or  other,  there  has  got  to  be  a  Christ- 
mas tree  in  this  house  by  next  year,"  Dana  an- 
nounced with  authority. 

"With  dollies  on  it,"  she  assented  dreamily. 

"No;  lead  soldiers." 

They  laughed  at  that.  "Ah,  weren't  we  happy, 
out  there?"  she  added,  with  a  little  movement  of 
body  and  breath  that  meant  regret. 

"They  always  tell  you  that  marriage  isn't  so 
easy  as  it  looks;"  Dana  was  answering  the  sigh. 
"I  guess  there's  something  in  it,  my  dear."  The 
doors  between  them  seemed  to  be  wide  open:  they 


EVER  AFTER  179 

were  suddenly  as  close  in  spirit  as  they  were  in 
body. 

"If  only  one  weren't  so  puzzled,"  she  said  eagerly. 
1  'If  one  could  know  just  what  the  other  —  and  what 
was  right  and  fair  —  ah,  if  one  knew!" 

A  startled  vision  of  a  new  possibility,  of  everything 
between  them  put  bravely  into  words,  held  him 
silent.  Moved  and  open  as  he  was,  he  might  have 
made  the  attempt  then,  for  good  or  ill,  if  a  house- 
maid had  not  interrupted  with  wood  for  the  fire. 
Lucy  watched  her  build  it  up  with  an  uneasy  frown. 

"Not  so  much,  Kate,"  she  exclaimed.  "Look, 
you  can  make  it  burn  with  half  that."  She  took 
active  charge,  rescuing  several  sticks  for  future  use. 
When  the  modest  blaze  was  started  and  the  maid 
had  gone,  she  came  back  to  Dana,  dusting  her  hands. 

"Servants  are  so  wasteful,"  she  protested.  Dana's 
mind  admitted  the  truth  of  the  complaint,  but  his 
heart  chilled  before  its  distressed  utterance.  For 
an  instant  the  grinding  spirit  of  old  Adrian  Cuyler 
had  looked  out  at  him. 

Christmas  was  not  over  with  the  passing  of  the 
day.  For  a  week  afterward,  a  new  frostiness,  faint 
but  unmistakable,  was  exhaled  from  the  older 
members  of  the  family  in  Dana's  presence.  He 
could  scarcely  go  down  the  street  without  meeting 
a  Cuyler,  and  nearly  all  of  them  showed  —  if  only 
by  the  emphasized  friendliness  of  the  partisan  — 


180  EVER  AFTER 

that  he  was  being  talked  over.  When  he  tried  to 
pay  Aunt  Margaret's  carfare,  her  caustic,  "Don't 
trouble  —  save  your  money.  I  prefer  to  pay  for 
myself,"  left  him  helpless  and  puzzled.  Cousin 
Susie  finally  let  out  the  secret.  The  family  was 
surprised  that  Dana,  so  kindly  received,  had  not 
troubled  to  send  so  much  as  a  rose  or  a  calendar 
to  his  new  relatives.  The  gift  was  unimportant, 
but  its  omission  showed  a  lack  of  recognition  on  his 
part,  a  want  of  well-bred  graciousness.  Each  had 
thought  nothing  of  it  until  she  discovered  that 
the  others  had  been  passed  over,  too;  and  it  was 
for  the  others  that  she  felt  the  neglect.  Kind 
Cousin  Susie  was  sure  that  customs  varied  in  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  country  and  that  Christmas  presents 
were  not  usual  where  Dana  came  from,  so  that  he 
could  not  be  expected  to  know  their  significance; 
but  she  had  thought  that  perhaps  a  few  New  Year's 
cards  and  a  potted  fern  for  Aunt  Margaret  might 
ease  the  situation,  and  that  was  why  she  had  told 
her  dear  Lucy.  Her  dear  Lucy,  quite  pale  with 
anger,  had  declared  that  everything  she  had  sent 
was  "from  us  both,  of  course"  —  she  had  supposed 
that  every  one  would  understand  that;  and  not  until 
Cousin  Susie  had  hurried  off  with  the  explanation 
did  she  realize  that  perhaps  it  was  not  quite  true. 

"Why  didn't  you  send  a  few  flowers,   Dana?" 
she  asked  when  she  had  told  him  the  trouble.     "I 


EVER  AFTER  181 

hate  to  have  them  think  you  ungracious  or  ungen- 
erous.    Don't  you  think  you  should  have?" 

Dana  made  no  answer  at  all.  She  had  yearned 
to  share  his  anger,  but,  if  he  felt  resentment,  he 
kept  it  to  himself.  The  family,  slightly  reactionary 
after  Cousin  Susie's  zealous  round,  returned  to  a 
charitable  tolerance,  unconcerned  as  to  what  might 
lie  behind  the  passive  courtesy  of  his  response. 
And  Dana,  ardent,  lonely,  wounded,  shut  himself 
up  in  his  work  and  tried  to  assert  that  that  was  the 
only  thing  in  life  that  really  mattered.  As  Palmer 
Jacks  had  once  said,  he  had  not  yet  learned  to 
laugh. 

Truly,  the  gadflies  were  out  after  Dana  Malone. 
Before  that  sting  could  be  forgotten,  a  letter  from 
Candace  brought  a  fresh  attack.  She  enclosed  a 
letter  from  California. 

"I  thought  you  ought  to  see  this,"  she  had  written. 
"I  hate  passing  on  unpleasant  things;  but  I  am 
so  certain  there  is  some  good  explanation.  Write 
Leila  or  let  me.  Of  course,  I  knew  there  was  some- 
thing, when  you  wouldn't  talk  about  San  Francisco. 
Now  don't  retreat  into  a  proud  silence,  my  boy. 
That  is  a  very  bad  trick  of  yours.  Good  old  friends 
have  to  be  conciliated,  even  at  the  cost  of  explaining 
to  them  that  you  are  not  an  utter  fool." 

Dana  knew  with  miserable  certainty  what  was 
coming  as  he  turned  to  the  marked  page: 


182  EVER  AFTER 

"I  don't  suppose  you  see  anything  of  Dana 
Malone,  now  that  he  has  married  into  the  first 
Boston  circles.  Do  you  know  that  he  was  out  here 
on  his  wedding  trip  —  people  saw  him  on  the  street, 
spoke  to  him  —  and  he  didn't  send  word  to  one  of 
his  old  friends?  We  can't  help  being  hurt  about  it. 
We  had  heard  he  was  coming,  and  had  planned  to 
give  him  the  warmest  kind  of  a  welcome,  but 
evidently  it  wasn't  wanted.  It  is  hard  to  believe 
of  Dana.  I  don't  see  how  even  money  could  have 
changed  him  like  that.  Still,  there  doesn't  seem 
to  be  any  other  explanation.  If  he  had  wanted  to 
see  us,  we  were  right  there,  and  waiting.  I  must 
confess,  I  feel  rather  sick  about  it.  East  is  East 
and  West  is  West  —  how  can  you  stay  in  a  place  that 
can  make  people  so  cold  blooded?  Come  back  to 
us,  Candy,  before  you,  too,  are  spoiled." 

Dana  read  the  sheet  again  and  again,  and  if  his 
old  friends  could  have  seen  his  face,  they  would  have 
had  no  room  left  for  their  own  hurt.  Then  he  put 
it  away  and  went  back  to  his  work.  He  said  nothing 
about  it  to  Lucy,  and  he  wrote  neither  to  Candace 
nor  to  California. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

Dana's  naturally  expansive  spirit,  having  re- 
treated into  itself,  made  the  dangerous  discovery 
that  it  was  easier  to  stay  there.  He  did  everything 
that  Lucy  suggested  with  a  spiritless  assent  that 
nearly  broke  her  heart:  he  seemed  to  have  neither 
impulses  nor  preferences,  so  long  as  he  was  allowed 
to  work  undisturbed.  Lucy  belonged  to  her  family, 
not  to  him.  He  was  a  mere  incident,  a  footnote  in 
the  family  history,  and  could  not  expect  to  affect 
its  course.  His  own  attitude  to  wealth  was  maturing. 
The  desire  to  spend  and  to  give  was  still  in  the  fore- 
ground, but  under  it  was  growing  a  new  under- 
standing of  the  power  that  lay,  unused,  in  his  wife's 
hands.  He  had  tried,  once  or  twice,  to  show  her 
what  he  saw,  but,  at  the  first  words,  Lucy 
had  retreated  so  uneasily  that  he  had  given  up. 
It  was  better  to  keep  to  his  role  of  passive  out- 
sider. He  knew,  dimly,  that  he  was  not  be- 
having very  well,  but  he  was  young  and  hurt, 
and  there  was  solace  in  the  specious  dignity  of 
his  attitude.  The  Celtic  songs  were  finished, 
but  he  did  not  send  them  to  his  publisher,   some 

183 


184  EVER  AFTER 

vague  premonition  impelling  him  to  "keep  them  on 
hand." 

"I'll  take  them  to  New  York  myself  some  day," 
he  explained  to  Lucy.  "I  may  want  to  make  some 
different  arrangement  about  them  —  sell  them  out- 
right or  something.  You  can't  tell."  Laid  in  a 
drawer,  they  were  tangible  assets,  convertible  prop- 
erty. He  turned  a  key  on  them  with  grave  satis- 
faction, and  buried  himself  in  his  "Children's  Cru- 
sade" without  a  day's  holiday.  He  would  have 
stayed  buried  in  it  indefinitely  if  a  belated  notice  of 
a  thousand-dollar  prize,  offered  for  an  orchestral 
piece  by  an  American  composer,  had  not  roused 
Lucy  to  excited  hope. 

"It  isn't  the  money,"  she  urged,  fighting  bravely 
against  his  apathy.  "Think  of  having  it  played 
by  one  of  the  finest  orchestras  in  the  country! 
O  Dana,  the  night  we  went  on  to  hear  it  — 
wouldn't  you  nearly  die  of  joy?" 

"But  nobody  ever  wins  in  competitions,"  he 
objected.  "Nobody  you  know,  that  is.  Besides, 
it  closes  in  —  let  me  see  —  ten  days." 

"Well,  you  have  practically  finished  it.  You 
could  potter  over  it  for  twenty  years  longer,  but  it 
is  really  done,  isn't  it?" 

"I  suppose  it  is,  after  a  fashion." 

"And  you  can  get  help  on  the  mechanical  work. 
Come  and  play  it,"  she  insisted. 


EVER  AFTER  185 

Dana  obeyed  unwillingly,  but  presently  the  music 
stirred  his  reluctant  hopes.  It  was  good!  The 
childish  pilgrims  streamed  brightly  forth,  all  youth 
and  faith  and  innocent  splendour,  and  the  mothers 
at  home  wailed  in  vain.  When  the  little  host, 
broken  and  beaten  on  earth,  had  been  taken  up 
into  heavenly  glory,  Dana  saw  with  fresh  eyes  what 
he  had  done,  and  was  amazed.  "Did  I  write  that?" 
was  his  solemn  thought. 

"It  is  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the  world!" 
Lucy  had  tears  on  her  eyelashes.  "O  my  dear, 
the  night  they  play  it!" 

Her  faith  moved  him  more  than  he  would  show. 
"All  right,  I'll  try  it,"  he  assented.  "It  will  be 
a  stiff  week." 

"I  will  do  everything  I  can  to  make  it  easier," 
she  promised.  And  she  kept  her  word,  putting 
herself  aside  with  whole-hearted  devotion.  If  Dana 
did  not  come  to  a  meal,  the  meal  unobtrusively 
came  to  him:  engagements  were  deferred  or  refused 
for  him:  the  music  room  was  put  in  order  before 
breakfast,  and  no  one  went  near  it  on  any  pretext 
afterward.  At  first  the  joy  of  defending  him  kept 
her  gay,  but  toward  the  end  of  the  week  it  grew  to 
be  lonely  work.  Dana  emerged  too  absorbed  and 
tired  for  human  intercourse.  On  the  last  night, 
it  was  after  midnight  when  the  music  room  door 
opened. 


186  EVER  AFTER 

"Hello!"  he  said  surprisedly,  for  his  wife  sat 
curled  down  against  the  doorpost,  her  head  resting 
on  her  knees.  Beside  her,  on  a  chair,  was  a  tray 
holding  a  thermos  bottle,  a  cup  and  some  sponge 
cakes. 

"I  had  some  hot  chocolate  made  for  you  —  you 
ate  so  little  dinner,"  she  explained,  rising.  "Will 
you  drink  it?" 

"I  certainly  will,"  he  assented,  remotely  touched 
and  grateful,  though  too  spent  to  produce  the  feelings 
with  any  conviction.     "  Why  didn't  you  bring  it  in?  " 

"My  dear!  I  wouldn't  have  interrupted  you  if 
the  house  had  been  on  fire,"  she  assured  him  seriously. 
"At  least,  not  if  I  thought  we  could  get  it  out." 

"Good  little  Lucy!"  He  tried  to  rouse  his  jaded 
spirit  to  a  proper  response.  "What  have  you  been 
doing  with  yourself  all  this  week?" 

"Oh,  the  usual  things."  She  filled  his  cup,  then 
stood  leaning  against  the  table,  looking  thought- 
fully down  on  him.  "Your  life  is  ever  so  much 
nicer  than  mine,"  she  complained.  "I  have  been 
thinking  about  it  all  the  week." 

The  chocolate  was  reviving  him;  the  moment  had 
become  pleasant  and  homelike.  "How  do  you 
mean?"  he  asked  comfortably. 

"The  thing  you  want  to  do  most  of  all  is  the  thing 
you  must  do;"  she  was  almost  scolding  him  for  it. 
"When  you  have  had  a  perfect  orgie  of  happiness, 


EVER  AFTER  187 

you  have  been  fulfilling  your  highest  duty.  My 
days  are  all  spent  in  doing  what  I  don't  want  to." 

"But  why  are  they?" 

"Because  those  are  the  things  that  must  be  done. 
I  have  had  two  committee  meetings  to-day,  and  I 
have  visited  the  Diet  Kitchen,  and  I've  sat  with 
a  lame  aunt  —  only,  of  course,  I  didn't  mind  that," 
with  a  note  of  apology;  "and  I  have  had  four 
requests  for  donations;  and  I  had  to  telephone  to 
a  man  I  didn't  know  and  ask  him  to  do  something 
he  didn't  want  to;  and  I've  —  oh,  it  is  ordeals  all 
the  time.  I  do  get  so  tired  of  screwing  myself  up, 
Dana!  And  yet  it  isn't  half  what  my  mother  used 
to  do  every  day  of  her  life." 

"Poor  girl!  What  would  you  do  if  you  could 
choose?  Without  any  conscience  at  all?"  There 
was  a  mocking  intonation  for  "conscience,"  but 
she  did  not  heed  it. 

"Paint,  of  course.  I  am  not  good  enough  to 
make  it  a  real  vocation,  with  rights  of  its  own,  but 
it  is  what  I  want.  I  would  work  at  painting,  and 
see  pictures,  and  read  lovely  things;  and  go  for 
long  walks  with  you;  and  see  Candy  oftener;  and  not 
do  anything  formal  ever  again,"  she  ended  with 
impatient  emphasis. 

Dana  finished  his  chocolate  in  thoughtful  silence. 
"I'll  tell  you  what,"  he  said  presently;  "we'll  take 
a  vacation,  and  for  two  months  you  shall  do  exactly 


188  EVER  AFTER 

as  you  please.  We'll  go  to  New  York  and  sublet 
a  studio  apartment;  you  can  always  get  them  at 
this  time  of  the  year.  You  shall  have  a  big  duplex 
workroom,  and  you  can  go  to  classes  if  you  like,  and 
see  all  the  exhibitions.  And  we'll  be  as  near  Candy 
as  possible;  everything  just  as  you  want  it.  Why 
not?" 

For  a  moment  her  face  had  lit  at  the  prospect; 
then  the  light  slowly  faded.  "I  couldn't.  It  would 
not  be  right,"  she  said  worriedly.  She  admitted 
that  her  place  could  be  filled  on  the  committees. 
"I  am  not  really  very  good  on  them,"  she  explained; 
yet  the  objection  persisted.  "We  don't  do  things 
in  a  moment,  like  that,"  she  assured  him.  "I 
might  plan  it  for  next  winter;  but  there  isn't  time 
now." 

The  "we  don't  do  it"  echoed  of  Aunt  Margaret, 
and  struck  irritatingly  on  Dana's  strained  nerves. 
In  the  freedom  of  Sky  Farm,  Lucy  had  exulted  in 
doing  things  on  a  moment's  notice.  Again  he  saw 
the  family  inexorably  reclaiming  her. 

"Why  take  half  a  year  to  plan  a  thing  as  simple 
as  a  b  c  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "You  tell  me  your  heart's 
desire,  and  I  show  you  how  you  can  have  a  try  at  it. 
Why  not  simply  rid  your  soul  of  scruples  that  don't 
mean  a  thing  and  take  your  chance?  " 

His  force  was  persuasive.  And  she  had  heard 
about  her  scruples  before,  heard  enough  to  disturb 


EVER  AFTER  189 

her  implicit  faith  in  them,  even  if  she  could  not 
check  their  rising.  "You  think  I  ought?"  she 
hesitated. 

"I  do." 

"W-e-11 "     It   was   the   slow   beginning   of 

concession,  but  she  broke  off  to  ask,  "What  would 
the  rent  be?" 

"Oh,  three  hundred  a  month,  perhaps." 

"Three  hundred  dollars  a  month!"  She  could 
not  believe  that  she  had  heard  aright. 

"But  you  get  their  linen  and  silver  and  furniture. 
It  would  probably  be  more.  People  always  expect 
a  good  profit  when  they  sublet." 

"Three  hundred  a  month!"  It  had  a  downward 
inflection,  this  time.  "I  think  that  is  perfectly 
iniquitous.  I  supposed  you  were  going  to  say  fifty 
dollars  a  month." 

"You  couldn't  get  a  duplex  hencoop  for  that 
in  New  York.  You  would  never  feel  it,"  Dana 
added,  rising. 

"It  is  the  principle,"  said  Lucy  with  tightened 
lips. 

"Is  it?"  he  asked,  his  tone  carefully  meaningless, 
though  his  eyes  searched  hers.  "The  principle  that 
you  couldn't  spend  so  much  for  pleasure  when  you 
might  be  doing  active  good  with  the  money?" 

"I  —  suppose  so."  Some  faint  emphasis  on  that 
"active  good"  made  her  voice  falter  for  an  instant. 


190  EVER  AFTER 

"Anyway,  it  is  too  much,"  she  concluded  firmly. 
"When  we  have  this  big  house  here." 

"True:  we  have  this  big  house  here,"  he  said, 
waiting  with  his  hand  at  the  light  for  her  to  leave 
the  room.  She  went  slowly,  troubled  and  rebellious 
at  the  unspoken  criticism  in  his  attitude.  Half- 
way up  the  stairs,  she  turned  and  waited  for  him. 

"Do  you  realize  that  three  hundred  a  month 
means  an  investment  of  seventy  two  thousand 
dollars?"  she  demanded.  "If  you  knew  more 
about  the  earning  capacity  of  money,  my  dear 
boy  —  my  grandfather  taught  me  that  when  I  was 
a  little  child.  He  used  to  say,  'When  you  spend 
a  dollar,  remember  that  a  dollar  is  all  that  twenty 
dollars  can  earn  in  a  year.'  That  taught  me  more!" 
In  the  fear  that  she  might  seem  to  be  disapproving 
of  him,  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "We 
think  nothing  of  five  cents,  and  yet,  after  all,  it  takes 
a  dollar  twelve  months  to  earn  even  that.  If  you  had 
only  learned  to  see  it  that  way  when  you  were  little ! " 

"Thank  God,  I  didn't!"  sprang  to  Dana's  lips, 
but  he  crushed  back  the  words,  with  only  an  im- 
patient movement  of  his  shoulder  to  betray  them. 

"We  don't  think  it  right  to  waste  money,"  she 
went  on.  "We  look  on  people  who  inherit  fortunes 
as  the  stewards  of  them  rather  than  the  owners." 

"Fine  old  gag,"  Dana  murmured,  but  she  was 
too  intent  on  her  explanation  to  heed. 


EVER  AFTER  191 

"It  is  our  business  to  use  them  wisely  and  pass 
them  on  whole  —  larger  rather  than  smaller.  Can't 
you  see  that,  dear?" 

"Yes,  I  see  that." 

"Then  mustn't  that  control  our  spending?" 

The  answer  was  to  him  childishly  obvious.  He 
had  only  to  say,  "It  is  right  to  save,  it  is  often 
wrong  to  spend,  but  to  love  to  save,  to  hate  to 
spend  —  that  is  evil;"  and  the  whole  question  would 
lie  open  between  them.  But  he  was  tired,  body 
and  soul. 

"I'm  Irish,  Lucy,"  he  said.  "You  can't  change 
me,  I'm  afraid.     Now  I  must  go  to  bed." 

"Ah,  of  course  —  you  are  tired  out;"  she  hurried 
on  ahead  of  him.  "I  forgot  for  the  moment.  I'm 
sorry !     Can't  I  do  something  for  you?  " 

"Nothing,  thanks."  He  turned  to  his  own  room 
and,  after  an  instant's  hesitation,  shut  the  door. 
Much  may  be  expressed  in  the  closing  of  a  door: 
that  it  will  not  open  again  that  night,  for  instance; 
and  that  he  who  shuts  it,  though  heartsick  himself, 
is  sorry  that  he  must  hurt  the  one  on  the  other  side. 

The  struggle  between  them  was  perilously  close 
to  the  surface;  but  a  forlorn  sense  that  words  were 
of  no  use  still  kept  Dana  silent.  The  difference  lay 
in  their  blood  and  bones,  far  beyond  the  reach  of 
argument.  He  reproached  himself  for  letting  this 
one  thing  bulk  so  darkly  between  them  when  in 


192  EVER  AFTER 

every  other  way  Lucy  was  so  darling  a  person,  yet, 
no  matter  in  what  mood  he  came  to  her,  some  petty 
aspect  of  their  difference  presently  blotted  out  the 
light.  It  seemed  to  him  sometimes  as  though  every 
breath  drawn  involved  the  hideous  factor  of  money. 

"All  that  twenty  dollars  can  earn  in  a  year," 
he  found  himself  muttering  that  night  as  he  tried 
to  go  to  sleep,  and  no  wrathful  turning  from  the 
phrase  could  get  it  out  of  his  head.  He  awoke  the 
next  morning  to  find  it  still  nagging  at  him :  "When 
you  spend  a  dollar  —  all  that  twenty  dollars  can 
earn  in  a  year " 

"We  can't  go  on  like  this,"  he  exclaimed,  starting 
up;  and  Lucy,  on  the  other  side  of  the  closed  door, 
desolate  and  frightened,  was  saying  the  same  words : 
"We  can't  go  on  like  this."  But  neither  foresaw 
the  alternative. 

Late  that  afternoon  Dana  carried  his  manuscript 
to  the  express  office. 

"Well,  there  is  a  thousand  dollars  coming  to  me, 
anyway,"  he  told  himself.  He  was  not  flushed  or 
elated:  it  was  a  calm  statement  of  fact.  "There 
isn't  a  man  in  America  who  can  beat  that.  One 
thousand  dollars  —  all  mine."  It  was  a  reviving 
thought. 

The  next  day  he  would  have  set  to  work  on  a  new 
theme  if  Lucy  had  not  objected. 

"You  are  tired  to  death,"  she  declared,  trying 


EVER  AFTER  193 

to  scold  him  heartily,  after  the  manner  of  happy 
and  confident  wives.  "It  is  all  nonsense,  to  slave 
so.  I  am  going  to  have  the  music  room  locked  up 
until  next  week." 

If  he  would  only  have  objected  aloud,  scolded 
back,  called  her  names,  she  could  have  lost  her 
point  with  a  glad  heart.  His,  "Well  —  all  right," 
was  a  discouraging  victory. 

"What  should  you  like  to  do?"  she  asked,  rising 
from  the  breakfast  table  for  a  look  at  the  cold,  gray, 
still  morning.  "Shall  we  go  out  to  the  Country 
Club  and  skate?" 

"Have  you  joined?" 

"No,  dear,  not  yet.  But  Uncle  Mortimer  doesn't 
mind  putting  us  up.  He  said  to  ask  him  whenever 
we  wanted." 

"I  think  we  ought  to  join  before  we  go  again, 
Lucy." 

"But  the  skating  will  so  soon  be  over;"  she 
looked  unhappy.  "I  never  have  gone  there  for 
anything  else.  And  if  next  year  we  have  a  warm 
winter " 

"True,"  he  assented  dryly,  and  turned  to  the  mail 
that  had  just  been  brought  in.  Presently  an  "O 
Lucy!"  in  a  very  different  tone  brought  her  back 
to  him.  He  was  reading  a  marked  newspaper  with 
startled,  grieved  eyes.  "Poor  old  Sam  Bynner," 
he  exclaimed.     "He  has  gone  —  and  all  his  lovely 


194  EVER  AFTER 

gift  with  him.  Ah,  I'm  sorry.  He  was  the  best 
friend  I  ever  had." 

His  spirit  was  unlocked  by  the  touch  of  sorrow; 
he  wanted  to  talk  about  his  boyhood  and  Sam 
Bynner's  place  in  it,  and  the  rush  of  touched  remi- 
niscence awoke  a  mighty  homesickness.  He  dwelt 
yearningly  on  his  open,  sunny  land,  on  the  welcome 
and  gayety  of  life  there,  on  marvellous  days  spent 
under  redwoods  or  by  the  sea  or  on  the  gaunt  moun- 
tain —  never  dreaming  how  he  was  wounding  his 
silent  listener.  Every  glowing  word  put  the  knife 
in  deeper;  a  caged  creature,  given  speech,  would 
have  poured  out  just  such  a  tale  of  his  past.  For 
a  newly  married  man  to  betray  so  poignant  a  home- 
sickness was  to  betray  the  hopeless  failure  of  his 
marriage.  Lucy  sat  with  her  face  resting  on  her 
hands,  cold  with  a  deathly  chill  from  head  to  foot. 

"And  there's  my  adopted  son,"  Dana  went  on. 
"Luis  Valdez  —  you  remember  about  him,  Lucy? 
I  must  give  him  every  human  chance.  That  is  all 
I  can  do  for  Sam  Bynner." 

"You  didn't  see  him?"  she  managed  to  say,  as 
he  seemed  to  expect  an  answer. 

"No.  We  must  go  out  there  and  look  him  up. 
I  have  an  idea  that  his  people  are  pretty  worthless, 
but  I  shouldn't  want  to  take  him  away  from  them 
without  being  very  sure." 

She  looked  up,  startled.     "Take  him  away?" 


EVER  AFTER  195 

"Yes,  dear.  I  want  to  teach  him  myself;  or  over- 
see his  work,  anyway.  I  promised  I  would.  Will 
you  go  out  there  with  me?" 

"We  might  go  next  autumn;"  she  spoke  unwill- 
ingly, secretly  swept  by  a  hot  hatred  of  the  place 
that  was  so  dear  to  him. 

"But  I  can't  neglect  the  little  chap  for  so  long, 
Lucy." 

She  was  breaking  open  her  own  letters.  "Can't 
you  get  some  teacher  there  to  look  him  up  and 
give  him  lessons?" 

"That  isn't  my  idea  of  fulfilling  a  trust." 

"But  there  must  be  very  good  teachers  in  San 
Francisco.  (Do  you  want  to  go  to  a  dance  at  the 
Holdens'?)  It  would  be  absurd  and  quixotic  to 
rush  right  back  again:  we  might  better  spend  all 
that  money  on  the  boy  himself.     If  he  is  worth  it." 

They  were  dangerously  near  to  open  hostility. 
Lucy  read  her  letters  with  an  irritating  air  of  interest, 
and  Dana,  not  guessing  how  he  had  stabbed  her, 
felt  her  aloofness  with  a  resentment  that  pulsed  for 
violent  expression.  He  curled  his  hands  tightly 
into  his  pockets  and  forced  himself  to  a  reasonable 
tone. 

"How  about  our  big  scheme  for  helping  genius 
to  get  heard  and  recognized?"  he  began.  "It 
seems  to  me  that  this  is  right  in  the  line  of  it  —  for 
I  have  perfect  faith  in  Sam  Bynner's  judgment. 


196  EVER  AFTER 

You  remember  all  the  plans  we  made?  I  have  never 
been  able  to  get  you  to  talk  about  it  since  we  came 
back.     Have  you  lost  faith  in  it?  " 

The  hard  edge  in  his  voice  roused  the  pride  which, 
though  seldom  visible,  was  a  part  of  her  inheritance. 
Her  glance  seemed  almost  to  question  his  right  to 
question  her. 

"I  think  that  was  all  rather  a  wild  dream,"  she 
said  coolly.  "It  is  almost  impossible  to  help  people 
without  doing  more  harm  than  good.  Especially 
artists." 

"Why  do  you  think  that?" 

"Look  at  last  summer.  That  was  an  honest 
attempt  to  help.  I  was  really  interested  and 
enthusiastic.  I  gave  Candace  all  the  money  she 
wanted,  and  I  went  there  with  an  open  mind.  But 
it  was  just  as  Mr.  Jacks  said :  something  for  nothing 
is  ruinous  to  anybody.  You  were  the  only  one  who 
didn't  seem  to  me  definitely  hurt  by  it." 

"That  is  a  short-sighted  view,  Lucy.  There 
are  dozens  of  known  cases  when  the  right  sort  of 
help  has  kept  genius  from  going  under.  Take 
Wagner " 

"I  have  to  believe  what  I  have  seen,"  she  inter- 
rupted. "I  shall  suggest  to  Candy  that  she  use 
the  cottages  as  part  of  her  school  next  summer." 
The  plan  was  formed  that  instant,  under  the  bitter 
need  to  wound.     "She  can  pay  me  a  small  rent  if 


EVER  AFTER  197 

she  is  prospering.  I  know  she  would  rather." 
Lucy  gathered  up  her  letters  and  rose.  "I  think 
I  won't  go  out  this  morning.  I  have  some  com- 
mittee business  to  see  to."  She  crossed  the  room 
with  a  gentle  dignity  that  seemed  to  put  miles 
between  them.     At  the  door  his  voice  stopped  her. 

"Lucy  —  is  there  any  reason  I  should  not  go  to 
California  myself  now  and  attend  to  this?" 

Had  he  proposed  to  go  back  to  an  old  love,  he 
could  not  have  struck  more  sharply.  There  was 
a  moment's  silence,  then,  "You  are  free  to  do  as 
you  please,"  she  said  with  a  faint  shrug,  and  passed 
out. 

The  masculine  refuge  of  out  of  doors  drew  Dana 
as  imperatively  as  her  own  room  called  to  Lucy. 
Half  that  gray  morning  he  tramped,  but  he  could 
not  walk  away  from  his  bitterness.  Though  his 
anger  cooled,  it  was  still  a  righteous  anger;  what  he 
had  encountered  was  mean  and  ugly,  and  he  did 
right  to  cry  shame  on  it. 

"Something  has  got  to  happen,"  he  said  harshly 
as  he  came  back  to  his  wife's  house;  but  he  had  made 
no  conscious  plan.  Habit  took  him  to  the  music 
room,  and,  finding  it  dim  and  chilly,  he  put  a  match 
to  the  fire  and  drew  a  chair  close  to  the  blaze. 

Lucy  came  slowly  down  from  the  room  above 
and  paused  in  the  doorway,  a  colourless,  exhausted 
presence  that  was  to  haunt  him  later,  though  at  the 


198  EVER  AFTER 

time  he  saw  only  his  grievance.  Her  forehead  drew 
to  a  faint  frown  as  she  noticed  the  crackling  logs. 

"There  is  a  fire  going  to  waste  in  the  morning 
room,"  she  said  wearily.  "Why  didn't  you  sit 
there,  Dana,  since  you  are  not  working?" 

The  question  was  largely  automatic,  and  came 
from  a  painful  sense  that  she  must  act  as  usual,  but 
it  was  just  the  tiny  touch  for  which  the  great  disaster 
hung  waiting.  Every  protest  that  Dana  had  ever 
crushed  down  rose  up  now  to  cry  judgment  on  her. 
He  stood  up  and  spoke  with  a  deadly  quietness. 

"I  can't  stand  this  any  longer.  It  is  too  hideous. 
My  wife  has  got  to  live  with  me  in  my  house. 
A  man  can't  be  subjected  to  —  I  am  going  back  to 
New  York.  As  soon  as  I  can,  I  will  have  a  home 
there  for  you.  You  may  come  to  it  or  not,  as  you 
please.  I  don't  care  what  you  do  with  your  own 
money,  but,  if  you  live  with  me  at  all,  you  shall  live 
in  my  way." 

She  had  put  a  fumbling  hand  on  the  back  of  a 
chair,  but  her  wide  eyes  did  not  falter  from  the  dark 
blaze  in  his,  and,  though  she  had  grown  painfully 
white,  the  line  of  her  mouth  stayed  firm.  "Why, 
Dana?"  The  question  had  no  sound,  but  he  saw 
it,  and  answered  with  words  that  had  long  been 
gathering. 

"Because  you  are  a  miser.  You  are  a  beautiful 
and  lovely  woman  with  a  streak  of  the  meanest  sin 


EVER  AFTER  199 

on  earth  running  right  through  the  centre  of  you. 
You  love  money.  You  hoard  it.  Look  what  your 
income  is  —  and  what  you  spend.  If  you  saved  it 
for  a  purpose  —  any  purpose  —  I  shouldn't  care. 
But  you  save  it  for  its  own  sake.  You  hate  to  give. 
You  can  do  it  with  gladness  when  your  imagination 
is  really  waked  up,  but  it  never  stays  awake  for  the 
next  case.  You  forget.  I  have  heard  you  bargain 
with  a  charwoman.  I've  seen  you  jubilant  over  a 
dollar  saved  —  for  what?  In  God's  name,  for  what? 
You  have  warned  and  reproved  me  until  I  hate  the 
sight  and  sound  of  your  money.  I  can't  live  on  it 
another  day.  This  is  death  to  me,  too,  but  it  had 
to  come.     I'm  going  now." 

He  waited  for  her  to  speak,  but  she  stood  as 
though  turned  to  ice  until  he  had  gone.  When  he 
had  packed  trunk  and  bag  and  summoned  a  cab,  he 
came  back  to  the  open  door.  She  sat  where  he  had 
sat  by  the  fire,  very  still,  her  face  turned  from  him, 
but  her  head  erect. 

"Good-bye,  Lucy."  His  voice  was  strained  and 
hard  and  he  waited  there  for  some  response,  but  she 
did  not  move  or  speak.  With  a  shrug  for  his  help- 
lessness, he  turned  away. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

Dana  left  the  house  as  he  might  have  left  a 
battlefield.  There  was  a  sense  of  past  horror,  a  dull 
relief  at  his  escape,  and  a  weariness  of  body  and 
soul  that  wiped  out  all  desires  and  regrets.  He  was 
not  unhappy  until  an  acquaintance  joined  him  on 
the  train:  then  the  casual  companionship  awakened 
an  obscure  anguish.  His  nerves  secretly  screamed 
at  every  demand  for  response:  his  repulsion  from 
speech  was  like  the  sick  body's  repulsion  from  good. 
The  man  got  off  at  Providence,  and  again  the  dull 
sense  of  peace  and  relief  took  possession.  He 
neither  questioned  his  act  nor  made  plans  for  the 
future.  Things  had  happened  of  themselves,  and 
would  continue  to  happen.  He  arrived  in  New 
York  too  late  to  take  any  active  measures,  and 
went  to  a  small  hotel  for  the  night.  It  was  not  a 
white  night:  he  slept,  did  not  consciously  suffer;  and 
yet  the  sight  or  name  of  that  hotel,  for  years  after- 
ward, came  like  a  sudden  blotting  out  of  the  sun. 

There  was  a  little  money  due  him  at  his  music 
publishers.  Thirty-one  dollars  seemed  an  ample 
cornerstone  for  fortune  as  Dana  signed  for  it  the 

200 


EVER  AFTER  201 

next  morning  and  went  on  upstairs  to  the  editorial 
offices.  A  dusty  little  fatherly  man,  peering 
over  his  spectacles,  held  out  a  stubby  hand 
to  him,  smiling  from  the  depths  of  a  square  brown 
beard. 

"Well,  Malone,  how's  genius?"  he  asked.  It  was 
their  customary  opening,  and  Dana  smiled  in  answer, 
laying  down  a  package  on  the  desk. 

"I  have  brought  you  some  Irish  songs.  Mr.  Dick- 
son," he  explained.  "And  I  want  you  to  buy  them 
outright.     Let  me  play  them  to  you." 

"Are  they  any  good?"  That  also  was  a  cus- 
tomary joke  between  them. 

"You  listen  and  see." 

A  piano  stood  in  the  room,  and,  as  Dana  played, 
silence  fell  on  the  adjoining  offices.  "Mary  Alone" 
brought  a  group  outside  the  open  door.  Mr.  Dick- 
son sat  with  a  hand  on  either  knee,  his  bushy  head 
tipped  back  for  closer  attention,  his  eyes  nearly  hid- 
den under  dropped  lids.  When  the  songs  had  all 
been  played  and  the  audience  had  melted  away, 
he  took  the  manuscript  and  inattentively  turned 
the  pages.     Suddenly  he  spoke. 

"Malone,  you're  a  fool  to  sell  these  outright. 
We  can't  give  you  more  than  —  oh,  seventy,  eighty 
dollars  for  all  six  of  them.  We  never  do.  And  if 
they're  as  good  as  they  seem  to  me  they  may  go  on 
selling  all  your  life.    We  will  publish  them,  of  course ; 


202  EVER  AFTER 

but  you  shouldn't  let  them  get  out  of  your  own 
hands." 

"I  have  to  have  the  money,"  said  Dana. 

"Why,  but  I  thought "  Mr.  Dickson  checked 

himself,  puzzled  and  uncertain.  Dana  felt  his 
questioning  look,  but  made  no  effort  at  explanation. 
The  meaningful  pause  did  not  even  embarrass  him, 
for,  with  the  inner  truth  so  dreadful,  outer  scrutiny 
and  wonder  seemed  then  of  small  consequence. 
He  recognized  the  awkwardness  with  a  silent,  tired, 
"I  can't  bother  about  that!"  and  waited  apatheti- 
cally for  the  moment  to  pass. 

"Of  course,  acting  for  the  firm,  I  ought  to  jump 
at  them,"  Mr.  Dickson  concluded. 

"Give  me  eighty  dollars  and  lend  me  a  piano," 
said  Dana,  rising.  "I  shall  be  perfectly  satisfied. 
But  I  must  have  the  money  to-day." 

"I  shall  have  to  talk  it  over  with  the  Chief,  but 

I  don't  think  there  will  be  any You  are  in 

New  York  now?" 

"Yes;  and  I  want  work,  a  lot  of  it.     Any  kind." 

"You  do?"  There  was  a  promising  inflection 
in  Mr.  Dickson's  voice  that  brought  their  eyes 
together.  "Well,  there  may  be  something.  Come 
back  this  afternoon,"  he  temporized.  "I  will  do 
what  I  can  about  the  check."  His  handshake 
expressed  trust  and  sympathy,  but  there  was  no 
response  in  Dana's  sombre  face. 


EVER  AFTER  203 

"As  soon  as  I  can,  I  will  have  a  home  there  for 
you;"  his  own  words,  flung  out  in  anger,  became 
a  simple  guiding  law  to  Dana,  now  that  he  was  cold 
and  passive  and  a  thousand  years  old.  "My  wife 
has  got  to  live  with  me,  in  my  house."  His  course 
had  been  laid  down,  and  he  bent  himself  doggedly 
to  following  it.  He  knew  the  city  well,  and  knew 
where  to  look  for  his  first  home.  The  pleasant 
apartments  made  of  old,  remodelled  houses  would 
all  be  taken  at  this  time  of  year:  his  best  hope  lay 
in  some  new  building  that  had  been  finished  too  late 
for  the  autumn  renting.  By  noon  he  had  found  a 
bright  little  hole  in  the  air,  high  up,  streaming  with 
south  sun  and  still  smelling  faintly  of  fresh  plaster, 
which  he  might  have  at  a  moderate  rental  for  the 
balance  of  the  year.  After  October,  the  rent  would 
be  higher;  but  October  was  a  long  way  off.  There 
was  one  large  room  with  three  tiny  appendages, 
labelled  bedroom,  bath  and  kitchen,  and  the  lines 
were  pleasant  to  the  eye,  the  windows  well  grouped. 
He  intrepidly  paid  down  thirty  dollars  to  bind  the 
bargain,  and  lunched  off  as  much  of  the  remaining 
dollar  as  his  carfares  had  left  him. 

Mr.  Dickson  had  a  check  for  eighty  dollars 
weighted  down  on  his  desk  when  Dana  came  in. 

"We've  got  a  piano  for  you,"  he  said,  but  made 
no  motion  to  rise  and  show  it.  His  meditative 
silence  finally  ended  in   an   abrupt,    "Schmidt  is 


204  EVER  AFTER 

leaving  us.  How  should  you  like  to  come  in  here 
in  his  place?" 

Dana  was  startled,  more  reluctant  than  pleased. 
Eight  hours  a  day  over  the  manuscript  music  of 
others  was  not  an  appealing  prospect,  and  the 
limitations  of  twenty-five  dollars  a  week,  the  salary 
offered,  were  well  known  to  him. 

"I  suppose  it  is  the  best  solution,"  he  admitted, 
when  they  had  talked  it  over.  "I'm  no  end  grateful 
to  you,  Mr.  Dickson,"  he  added  on  a  note  of  apology. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  We  are  lucky  to  get  you," 
was  the  kindly  answer. 

Dana  left  the  office  both  troubled  and  relieved. 
He  had  sold  all  of  his  daylight  for  what,  with  good 
fortune,  he  might  have  earned  with  half  of  it;  yet 
he  was  spared  the  immediate  necessity  of  waiting 
on  fortune.  The  angry  pride  that  had  sent  him  off 
with  only  a  night's  expenses  in  his  pocket  might  have 
had  humiliating  consequences.  Out  of  his  eighty 
dollars  he  bought  a  cot  and  bedding,  a  table,  a  couple 
of  chairs  and  a  few  kitchen  utensils,  and  by  persuasive- 
ness succeeded  in  getting  them  delivered  at  once. 
That  night  he  sat  down  in  his  new  home  and  wrote 
two  letters.  He  was  bent  over  the  first  half  the  eve- 
ning, yet,  when  it  was  written,  it  was  only  three  lines: 

Dear  Lucy:  Please  send  letters  here.  I  have  taken  a  small 
apartment  and  hope  soon  to  have  it  ready  for  you. 

Yours  always,  Dana. 


EVER  AFTER  205 

The  second,  though  longer,  took  only  a  few 
moments: 

Dear  Luis  Valdez  :  My  friend  Mr.  Bynner  told  me  about 
you,  and  I  promised  him  that  I  would  try  to  help  you  to  become 
a  musician.  Mr.  Bynner  was  as  good  to  me  when  I  was  a  boy  as 
he  has  been  to  you,  and  I  owe  him  such  a  debt  of  gratitude  that 
I  want  to  pay  it  to  you.  Just  now  I  have  no  money  and  can't 
do  anything,  but  I  want  you  to  keep  up  your  courage,  work  at 
your  music  all  you  can,  and  remember  that  I  shall  help  you  the 
first  possible  moment.  I  believe  in  you  because  Mr.  Bynner  did, 
and  I  mean  to  be  your  friend. 

Dana  Malone. 

Then  he  went  to  bed  on  his  hard  little  cot,  spread- 
ing his  overcoat  for  extra  warmth,  and  telling  him- 
self surprisedly  that  he  was  not  especially  unhappy. 

"I  don't  seem  to  have  any  heart,"  he  concluded. 

The  few  days  before  he  went  to  work  Dana  spent  in 
close  imitation  of  the  man  who  sold  his  straw  and 
lay  on  grass  to  buy  his  wife  a  looking-glass.  Heart 
and  mind  stayed  shut  against  Lucy,  but  every  cent 
he  had  or  could  raise  went  toward  getting  the  little 
place  ready  for  her.  His  habit  of  prowling  about 
odd  corners  of  the  city  had  made  him  friends  among 
antique  dealers  of  all  classes,  and  they  welcomed 
him  back,  genially  bargaining  with  themselves 
when  he  had  told  them  what  he  wanted,  and  freely 
giving  him  credit.  A  dignified  chest  of  drawers, 
a  curious  old  mirror,  a  grandfatherly  rocking-chair, 
and  a  table  with  an  oval  top  were  found  for  the 


206  EVER  AFTER 

little  bedroom,  and  then  Dana  added  a  white  bed, 
and  put  all  his  remaining  money  into  the  whitest, 
softest  blankets  that  the  city  offered.  Nothing  less 
fine  would  be  good  enough  for  Lucy.  His  own 
plebeian  cot  stayed  in  the  main  room  with  a  piece  of 
burlap  for  a  cover,  and  he  prepared  most  of  his 
meals,  choosing  what  was  cheapest  and  easiest  and 
swallowing  it  with  blank  indifference.  The  bed- 
room was  at  least  habitable  by  Saturday  night,  but 
the  big  room  remained  stark  and  ridiculous,  with  its 
ornate  piano  and  practically  nothing  else. 

"How  do  poor  people  do  it?  How  do  they  ever 
get  whole  houses  furnished?"  he  wondered,  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  his  cot,  tired  and  discouraged.  His 
need  angered  and  humiliated  him.  Brooding  in 
the  growing  darkness,  Dana  suddenly  understood 
why  men  commit  crimes  for  money.  But  there  was 
no  crime  to  his  hand  —  only  a  dreary  possibility 
of  music  pupils.  Several  of  his  old  students  had 
shown  a  boyish  devotion  to  their  teacher,  and 
might  be  willing  to  come  back  to  him,  even  at  the 
cost  of  evening  lessons.  They  had  known  nothing 
of  his  marriage,  and  would  not  question  his  return; 
and  any  course  would  be  better  than  sitting  there, 
facing  figures.  He  set  out  at  once  to  hunt  up  the 
most  probable.  That  there  might  be  an  element  of 
absurdity  in  working  himself  to  death  to  support  an 
heir  to  the  Cuyler  millions  did  not  once  occur  to  him. 


EVER  AFTER  207 

The  elevators  were  at  the  front  of  the  building, 
which  faced  the  north,  and  was  given  over  to  studio 
apartments.  Tenants  were  moving  in  on  every 
floor,  and,  as  Dana  waited  by  the  shaft,  a  new  card 
on  the  door  nearest  caught  his  attention.  He  read 
it  at  first  unseeingly,  then  with  a  quick  shrinking 
back. 

"Ludlam!"  he  muttered. 

He  had  thought  of  a  meeting  with  an  old  friend 
as  the  disaster  most  to  be  dreaded,  but  this  discovery 
of  Ludlam  within  a  few  steps  of  his  door,  Ludlam 
the  hostile,  the  gossip  loving,  was  overwhelmingly 
worse.  Eleven  flights  of  stairs  lay  between  him  and 
the  street,  but  Dana  walked  down  them  all  rather 
than  risk  a  meeting. 

Evidently  his  neighbour  kept  different  hours. 
Dana  came  and  went  without  an  encounter  until, 
absorbed  in  his  new  work,  he  almost  forgot  the 
danger.  He  liked  his  busy  office,  the  rough  and 
ready  world  of  men,  his  plain  fare  and  bald  quarters; 
soft  conditions  had  become  associated  in  his  mind 
with  inner  misery.  He  was  not  happy,  but  relief 
at  having  asserted  his  rightful  self,  taken  manful 
action,  was  still  his  foremost  feeling,  and  he  gave 
himself  no  time  to  realize  what  lay  in  the  back- 
ground. Two  pupils  had  come  back  to  him  and  a 
third  was  promised;  and  Adrian  Cuyler  himself 
never  heaped  up  his  thousands  more  jealously  than 


208  EVER  AFTER 

Dana  scraped  together  his  scanty  dollars.  He  had 
been  working  for  several  weeks  before  he  indulged 
in  a  top  gallery  seat  at  a  concert. 

The  music  left  him  stirred  and  excited.  The 
creator  in  him,  held  down  by  care  and  routine,  had 
suddenly  broken  loose,  filling  him  with  new  splen- 
dours of  sound.  All  the  creation  of  the  years  to  come 
seemed  to  rise  up  before  him,  barely  veiled  from  his 
senses,  throwing  out  faint  echoes  and  reverberations, 
like  a  flutter  of  beckoning  white  hands.  He  followed 
them  about  the  dark  streets  till  the  fever  of  exalta- 
tion died  down,  and  a  prosaic  forethought  for  the 
morning's  work  turned  him  toward  home.  Before 
the  glory  should  be  wholly  gone,  he  stopped  under 
a  street  lamp  and  set  down  musical  notes  as  obliv- 
iously as  if  he  were  in  his  own  rooms. 

The  curtain  of  sound  that  shut  him  in  could  not 
shut  out  the  world.  Presently  a  surprised,  "Upon 
my  word ! "  threw  it  aside.  Dana,  startled,  shrinking 
as  though  his  garments  had  been  clutched  away, 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  Ludlam.  It  was 
a  fatter,  more  prosperous  looking  Ludlam,  but  his 
pointed  blond  beard  still  failed  to  hide  the  smallness 
of  his  mouth,  and  his  coat  fitted  at  the  waist,  and 
Dana  hated  him  with  a  hatred  that  felt  murderous. 

"So  genius  still  burns?"  Ludlam  had  put  out  his 
hand,  and  Dana  had  to  take  it.  "What  is  it  — 
an  Arclight  Sonata?  " 


EVER  AFTER  209 

"Oh,  —  how  are  you,  Ludlam?  "  Dana  had  unsmil- 
ingly  put  away  his  notebook.  To  Ludlam  his 
unresponsiveness  could  mean  only  the  natural  and 
proper  hauteur  of  the  rich,  and  gave  him  a  marked 
increase  in  value. 

"It  is  good  to  see  you  again."  He  studied  Dana 
with  tilted  head  and  dropped  lids,  as  though  he 
were  a  work  of  art,  then  glanced  down  complacently 
at  his  own  opulent  effect.  "Things  have  changed 
a  bit  since  we  were  castaways  together  on  a  desert 
farm,"  he  admitted,  with  a  small,  amused  smile 
for  the  secret  of  their  scanty  past.  "How  is  Mrs. 
Malone?" 

"Well,  thank  you."  Dana's  shortness  seemed 
to  mark  him  a  billionaire  at  the  least,  and  Ludlam's 
approval  increased. 

"It  has  been  an  interesting  winter,"  he  said 
confidentially.  "I  am  coming  into  my  own,  as  I 
suppose  you  have  heard.  I  never  doubted;  but 
that  is  purely  a  matter  of  temperament.  I  have 
known  excellent  men  who  had  no  self-confidence 
at  all.  'Ludlam  is  so  cocksure,'  they  used  to  say. 
'Is  he  a  conceited  ass,  or  does  he  know  what  he  is 
about?'"  He  laughed  delicately,  taking  out  a 
cigarette  case.  "Well,  we  don't  hear  that  question 
any  longer.    Will  you  smoke?" 

"Thanks,  no." 

"Wise  man.    I  am  smoking  myself  to  death, 


210  EVER  AFTER 

they  tell  me."  He  lit  a  cigarette  with  the  long- 
armed,  fluent  gestures  that  Dana  had  always  re- 
sented. "I've  got  a  little  place  just  round  the  corner 
here,  in  the  Dartmoor  Studios;  it's  not  bad.  Won't 
you  come  up?" 

"I  can't  to-night,  thanks."  Dana  was  backing 
restlessly,  but  the  suave  voice  still  held  him. 

"Ah,  to  be  sure:  these  married  men!  I  wish  you 
would  bring  Mrs.  Malone  in  some  afternoon.  I 
should  like  to  show  her  one  or  two  things.  Are  you 
in  town  for  long?  " 

The  desire  to  escape  had  become  an  anguish. 
Heedless  of  consequences,  Dana  burst  through  the 
delicate  web  of  courtesy  that  had  been  cast  over  him. 

"I  can't  say.  Well,  I  must  be  off.  Good-night," 
he  jerked  out,  his  hands  thrust  defiantly  into  his 
pockets,  and  strode  away  as  though  bound  for  the 
other  end  of  town.  Ten  cooling  blocks  lay  between 
him  and  the  encounter  before  he  realized  the  awk- 
ward moment  he  had  prepared  for  himself,  when 
he  and  Ludlam  should  meet  in  their  own  halls. 

"I'll  move,  then,"  he  said  irritably  as  he  turned 
and  came  slowly  back.  "No,  by  jinks,  I  won't;" 
with  rising  rage.  "I'll  look  him  in  the  eye  and  I 
won't  give  a  damn!"  And  he  entered  the  building 
with  a  savage  desire  that  the  encounter  might  take 
place  then,  feeling  that  his  part  in  it  would  be  a  re- 
lief in  the  unmitigated,  hateful  dreariness  of  existence. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

People  carried  trouble  —  any  one's  trouble  — 
to  Candace  Ware.  Not  that  she  met  it  with  any 
marked  signs  of  compassion.  She  was  baldly 
unsentimental,  and  she  had  no  capacity  whatever 
for  righteous  rage:  the  wrongdoer's  side  was  as 
comprehensible  as  the  victim's  to  her  humorous 
tolerance.  Once  Dana,  in  a  white  heat  over  an 
act  of  cruelty  to  a  dog,  had  turned  on  her  and 
demanded  a  responsive  anger. 

"Well,  I  kicked  a  parrot  once  myself,"  she  had  ob- 
jected in  her  easy  drawl,  "and  I've  never  been  sorry." 

His  wrath  had  gone  down  in  laughter,  and  "I 
kicked  a  parrot,"  had  lived  like  a  proverb.  But, 
if  she  would  not  condemn,  she  would  take  endless 
trouble  for  any  one  in  "hard  luck";  and,  if  she  was 
not  soft-hearted  after  the  traditional  fashion,  she 
was  at  least  genial,  and  her  sleepy  little  brown  eyes 
curled  up  at  the  corners  in  a  mellow  smile.  She  was 
never  seen  to  take  up  a  book.  In  the  rare  moments 
when  she  was  not  occupied,  she  lay  back  in  a  deep 
chair,  as  motionless  in  her  content  as  a  lizard  in 
the  sun. 

211 


212  EVER  AFTER 

Such  a  moment  of  Sunday  afternoon  peace  was 
broken  in  on  by  the  doorbell  and  the  sound  of  a 
bustling  entrance. 

"Hello,  Palmer,"  she  said  placidly,  without  turn- 
ing her  head. 

Palmer  Jacks  had  no  attention  to  spare  for  greet- 
ings.   He  came  in  radiating  news. 

"What's  all  this  about  the  Dana  Malones?"  he 
began,  drawing  a  chair  to  the  hearth  and  seating 
himself  with  head  tilted  for  closer  attention,  his 
handsome,  ruddy  face  all  a  concentrated  question. 
Candace  had  straightened  up. 

"The  Dana  Malones?"  she  repeated.  "I  haven't 
heard  from  them  in  ages,"  she  added. 

"Then  you  don't  know  that  he  is  living  here, 
by  himself?" 

"No!" 

Palmer  nodded  grave  affirmation.  He  was  con- 
cerned and  sorry,  but  he  was  undeniably  enjoying 
himself.  "I  just  heard  about  it  from  Ludlam," 
he  explained.  "It's  a  queer  business.  Malone  is 
living  in  the  same  building,  though  Ludlam  has  only 
just  found  it  out.    And  you  didn't  know  it?  " 

"Not  a  word  of  it.    You  are  sure? " 

Palmer's  eyebrows  and  shoulders  admitted  the 
fallibility  of  all  evidence.  "I  wouldn't  stake  my 
life  on  Ludlam's  word;  but  I  don't  see  why  he  should 
invent  this  particular  tale.    Now  if  he  had  told  me 


EVER  AFTER  213 

that  a  Russian  princess  had  shot  herself  on  his 
account  —  gad,  wouldn't  he  enjoy  that?  —  or  that 
a  dealer  had  given  him  fifteen  thousand  dollars  for 
a  picture,  I  might  have  my  private  doubts.  But 
this  sounds  pretty  straight." 

Candace  was  frowning  at  him.  "Tell  me  what 
you  know,"  she  commanded. 

"Well,  Ludlam  met  him  first  on  the  street,  night 
before  last,  and  asked  him  to  his  rooms;  but  Malone 
wouldn't  come.  Went  off  as  though  he  lived  at  the 
other  end  of  town.  The  next  morning  the  two 
came  face  to  face  at  the  elevator.  Ludlam  naturally 
supposed  that  Malone  was  looking  him  up,  and 
greeted  him  as  a  man  and  a  brother  —  or,  rather, 
as  a  man  and  a  millionaire.  You  know  Luddy! 
Whereupon  Malone  scowled  at  him  and  said,  *I  am 
not  looking  for  you.  I  live  here,  on  this  floor.' 
Then  he  marched  into  the  elevator,  and  Ludlam  was 
too  surprised  to  follow  him.  But  he  asked  a  few 
questions  —  he  wasn't  too  surprised  for  that  —  and 
found  out  that  Malone  has  been  there  nearly  a 
month,  evidently  alone,  and  downtown  working 
every  day.     Now  what  do  you  make  of  it?" 

Candace  nodded,  as  at  something  she  might  have 
known.  "Hard  luck,"  she  admitted.  There  was 
understanding  in  her  voice,  and  he  pounced  on  it. 

"What  has  happened?  Nice  young  fellow  like 
that  —  what  has  he  done?" 


214  EVER  AFTER 

"He  hasn't  done  anything.  It's  geography, 
Palmer.  'As  far  as  the  East  is  from  the  West.' 
I  ought  to  have  kept  an  eye  on  them.  I  knew 
they'd  hurt  each  other,  but  I  didn't  suppose  it 
would  come  to  this.  Did  Ludlam  say  anything 
more?" 

"Well,  he  pointed  out  his  own  great  delicacy  in 
not  following  up  the  matter.  That  is,  he  hasn't 
knocked  on  Malone's  door  and  asked  him  why  he 
left  his  wife.  It's  a  great  thing  to  have  these  refined 
instincts,  Candy." 

"No,  it  isn't.  I  intend  to  knock  on  Dana's  door 
and  ask  him  that  very  question."  Candace  half 
rose,  then  deferred  action  for  the  moment.  "It 
must  have  been  pretty  bad!" 

"You  know  something  you're  not  telling  me," 
he  complained. 

"Only  their  two  characters." 

Palmer  meditated  on  the  two  characters,  his  head 
cocked  like  a  wise  bird's.  "She  was  a  mighty  sweet 
little  girl,"  he  finally  admitted;  "but  I'm  afraid  that 
marrying  her  would  be  rather  like  living  with  a 
museum  piece.  Most  of  us  would  prefer  to  enjoy 
the  museum  piece  in  the  museum." 

"Oh,  Lucy  is  human  enough." 

"Urn  —  perhaps.  But  you  know,  Candy,  as  long 
as  she  lived,  she'd  never  really  enjoy  a  vulgar  joke!" 

Candace  smiled  comprehendingly  at  the  indict- 


EVER  AFTER  215 

ment.  "They  don't  either  of  them  know  how  to 
laugh  at  the  saving  moment.  And  now  they  have 
to  learn.  Well,  it's  time,  I  suppose.  I'll  go  round 
there  and  see  what  I  can  do." 

Palmer's  eyes  twinkled  with  a  suppressed  gibe. 
"Why  haven't  you  ever  married,  Candy?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  I  have,"  was  the  placid  answer. 

He  could  only  stare  and  stutter.  "You  —  you 
—  have?'* 

"Yes  — once." 

"Gad!  once  is  generally  enough!"  He  drew 
a  long  breath  and  unconsciously  wiped  his  forehead 
with  his  handkerchief.  "Why  haven't  you  ever 
told  me?" 

Candace  frankly  pondered.  "I  don't  know; 
I  suppose  I  had  sort  of  forgotten  about  it.  I  was 
only  seventeen,  and  it  didn't  —  last.  He  wasn't  a 
bad  sort,  either,"  she  added  musingly.  "I  don't 
see  that  he  could  help  —  but  my  family  hauled  me 
out  of  it.  You  see,  we  had  eloped."  She  rose, 
with  purpose  this  time.  "I'll  get  on  my  things," 
she  said. 

When  she  came  back,  Palmer  was  still  too  stupe- 
fied for  speech.  He  went  down  to  the  street 
beside  her  in  silence,  and  put  her  on  her  car  with 
a  dazed  handclasp. 

"I  won't  speak  of  it  to  a  soul,"  he  said,  and  Can- 
dace,  in  the  car,  laughed  to  herself,  realizing  that 


216  EVER  AFTER 

friendship  could  scarcely  have  wrung  from  him  a 
more  oppressive  vow. 

Dana  went  through  his  week  days  well  enough, 
but  Sundays  were  increasingly  difficult.  He  could 
crowd  the  morning  with  work;  but  the  afternoon 
always  brought  an  hour  when  his  tired  brain  and 
body  refused  to  help  him  any  longer,  and  despair  was 
very  close.  He  still  kept  Lucy  sternly  shut  out; 
but  there  came  a  Sunday  when  he  went  into  her 
closed  room  and  sat  down  in  the  grandfatherly  rocker, 
burying  his  face  in  her  bed.  Great  wheels  seemed 
to  roll  slowly  over  him,  crushing  out  hope  and 
strength  and  rebellion.  A  longing  to  be  very  little 
and  to  have  some  one  take  him  up  on  her  lap  filled 
his  eyes  with  tears.  He  was,  after  all,  only  an 
ignorant  little  boy,  very  lost  and  frightened.  This 
matter  of  being  a  grown  man  was  all  a  bluff. 

"I  do  need  help,"  he  said  desolately. 

Help  knocked  at  his  outer  door,  but  Dana,  not 
recognizing  the  signal,  muttered  imprecations,  and 
carefully  closed  the  little  room  before  he  answered. 
Face  to  face  with  Candace,  he  was  once  more  the 
grown  man,  cool  and  defensive. 

"Hello,  Candy!"  He  spoke  with  cheerful  sur- 
prise.    "Come  in.     Glad  to  see  you." 

Candace  was  not  to  be  held  at  arm's  length.  "I 
am  not  at  all  glad  to  see  you,"  she  returned.     After 


EVER  AFTER  217 

a  quick  glance  about  the  bare  room,  her  eyes  came 
back  to  his  face,  and  discovered  its  secret  haggard- 
ness,  the  look  that  was  both  tragic  and  boyish  under 
its  smiling  defence.  She  laid  a  comradely  hand  on 
his  arm.  "Couldn't  it  have  been  helped?"  she 
asked. 

He  moved  away  from  the  hand,  but  dropped  the 
cheerfulness.  "I'm  afraid  not.  Here's  a  chair. 
Or  you  can  sit  on  my  bed,  if  you  prefer.  They're 
equally  hard." 

She  took  the  couch  and  deliberately  drew  off  her 
gloves.  "Nice  room,"  she  said.  "I  have  more 
furniture  than  I  can  use.  I'll  send  you  over  one 
or  two  things.    Have  you  a  kitchen?" 

"Oh,  yes."  He  showed  her  the  kitchen,  but  made 
no  motion  to  open  the  door  of  the  bedroom.  They 
talked  at  hazard  about  light  housekeeping  and 
furniture,  then  Candace  let  a  silence  preface  a  fresh 
attack.    Dana  did  not  wait  for  it. 

"A  man  has  to  earn  his  own  living,  Candy,"  he 
said  dryly.  "It's  a  law  of  nature.  I  learned  it 
fairly  hard,  but  —  I  learned  it." 

"Does  he  —  at  any  cost?" 

"Yes.  The  cost  of  not  earning  it  is  always 
greater.  I  have  done  nothing  hurriedly,  or  that  I 
could  escape."  He  turned  away  with  a  nervous 
jerk,  hooking  his  elbow  over  the  back  of  his  chair. 
"I  hope  to  have  Lucy  here  some  day,"  he  explained. 


218  EVER  AFTER 

Candace  bent  toward  him,  her  elbows  digging 
into  her  knees,  a  smile  of  human  understanding 
lighting  the  hardy  brown  face  between  her  fists. 
"See  here,  Dana;  couldn't  you  have  laughed?" 

"Laughed!" 

"U'mh'm.    I  did.    All  through  Europe." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean."  He  spoke 
exasperatedly,  but  she  continued  to  smile  on  him 
from  between  her  fists. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  Haven't  you  ever  noticed 
how,  when  it  is  an  ordinarily  hot  day,  we  grumble 
at  it;  but  when  the  heat  becomes  abnormal,  when 
the  thermometer  goes  up  and  up  and  the  ambulances 
are  clanging  all  day  long  and  people  dropping  in  the 
streets  —  a  joke  element  comes  into  it?  Nobody 
grumbles  then:  they  laugh  as  they  meet.  It  is  so 
bad,  it's  funny.  There's  a  wild  sort  of  good  humour 
bred  by  the  very  extremity  of  it.  You've  seen  that? 
Well,  it's  the  same  way  with  other  things.  For 
instance,  when  a  person  has  eight  or  nine  thousand 
a  year  and  worries  about  carfares,  that  may  be 
necessary  or  it  may  be  dead  mean;  but  in  either  case 
it's  annoying.  But  when  a  person  with  eighty  or 
ninety  thousand  a  year  worries  over  a  carfare,  it  is 
just  funny.  It  is  nature  gone  mad.  It's  a  hundred 
and  two  in  the  shade.     You've  got  to  laugh." 

Dana  had  listened  with  frowning  intentness. 
"I  think  you're  talking  rot,"  he  decided. 


EVER  AFTER  219 

"No,  I'm  not.  Let  me  show  you.  Just  as  an 
instance,  one  day  in  Paris  we  bought  a  dozen  peaches 
out  of  our  common-expenses  fund,  Lucy  and  I;  and 
then  Lucy  wasn't  well  and  didn't  eat  any  of  them. 
Presently  I  discovered  that  it  worried  her  —  that 
she  had  paid  half.  So  I  put  an  extra  franc  into  the 
fund,  and  I  secretly  yelled.  For  she  couldn't  help 
it,  poor  lamb:  it  was  just  Grandpa  Cuyler.  If  he 
had  poked  his  head  up  over  his  monument,  it 
couldn't  have  been  clearer  —  or  funnier." 

Dana  shivered.  "No,  I  couldn't  have  laughed," 
he  muttered,  a  look  of  shame  on  his  face. 

"Not  if  the  extra  franc  were  of  any  earthly  use 
to  her!" 

"Not  anyway." 

"Well,  perhaps  not  if  she  were  like  that  all 
through,"  Candace  conceded.  "But  that's  just 
it:  she  is  so  ridiculously  generous  about  everything 
else.  Did  you  ever  know  any  one  who  would  give 
her  time  as  Lucy  does?    And  her  pity?  " 

She  had  at  last  let  a  ray  of  light  into  his  darkness. 
Lucy  sitting  for  hours  with  a  dull  old  lady  in  a 
furnace-heated  room,  jealously  sealed  against  fresh 
air  —  Lucy  toiling  over  committee  work  —  Lucy 
caught  on  the  street  with  a  heavy,  dirty  baby  in  her 
arms,  that  a  poor  woman's  load  might  be  lightened 
—  a  hundred  pictures  of  a  loving  and  giving  Lucy 
rose  up  before  his  startled  sight. 


220  EVER  AFTER 

"Anybody  can  give  money.  That  is  easy," 
Candace  added.  "But  to  give  everything  else, 
without  stint,  and  then  balk  at  that  one  little  thing 
—  can't  you  see  the  joke?" 

He  threw  out  despairing  arms.  "Oh,  perhaps, 
perhaps.  But  the  money  is  there,  all  the  time, 
in  everything.  You  can't  get  away  from  it.  You 
can't  use  it,  and  you  can't  avoid  it.  Every  depart- 
ment of  life  is  smeared  all  over  with  it.  It  can  hurt 
you  in  four  hundred  places  in  a  single  day.  You 
might  get  along  without,  for  yourself;  but  when  it 
comes  to  deciding  that  you  can't  help  other  people 

"    He  was  telling  more  than  he  meant  to, 

and  pulled  himself  up.  Candace  answered  only 
the  last  sentence. 

"Every  one  who  gives  much  has  to  think  that  now 
and  then,"  she  said  reasonably.  "There  is  some- 
thing in  it.  You  know,  Dana,  with  unlimited 
money,  a  person  like  you  can  do  no  end  of  harm  in 
this  cranky  world." 

He  did  not  like  that.     "  I  am  not  quite  a  fool ! " 

"No,"  she  admitted;  "and,  of  course,  having  it 
would  modify  you.  Nobody  is  ever  quite  so  lavish 
as  the  man  who  hasn't  a  cent.  Besides,  one  gets 
so  many  blows,  trying  to  help,  they  tame  that  wild 
native  generosity.  Half  the  things  one  attempts 
seem  to  turn  out  worse  than  wasted  effort." 

"Do  you  really  believe  that?" 


EVER  AFTER  221 

"My  dear  boy,  I  know  it.  I'll  tell  you  a  case, 
a  man  I  discovered  with  a  wonderful  gift  for  illus- 
tration. He  had  been  too  poor  to  study  enough, 
so  I  got  people  interested,  and  we  managed  two  years 
at  the  League  for  him,  and  private  lessons,  and  then 
a  room  and  board  till  he  should  get  on  his  feet, 
and  letters  to  art  editors,  and  dear  knows  what. 
Sounds  legitimate,  doesn't  it?  Wouldn't  you  have 
contributed?  Well.  After  several  months,  I  looked 
him  up,  expecting  to  find  him  well  under  way.  Do 
you  know  what  he  was  doing?  Sitting  down  on  his 
board  and  lodging,  writing  a  sonnet  cycle,  which  he 
planned  to  illustrate  later.  He  had  ^done  abso- 
lutely nothing  else." 

Dana  managed  a  smile.  "How  were  the  son- 
nets?" 

"Not  much  worse  than  commonplace.  If  he 
could  have  given  ten  years  to  literary  composition, 
he  might  have  turned  out  —  printable.  Perhaps. 
Oh,  I  understood,  of  course.  He  had  been  praised 
till  he  thought  he  could  do  anything;  and  his  literary 
impulse  felt  as  real  to  him  as  the  other.  But  I  had 
to  say  a  few  direct  words,  and  there  was  a  frightful 
case  of  hurt  feelings.  We  had  completely  ruined 
him.  He  proudly  withdrew  from  the  board  and 
lodging,  and  I  don't  know  what  he  is  doing  now  — 
learning  a  little  sense,  I  hope.  He  hasn't  emerged  as 
an  illustrator.     But  that  is  what  you  have  to  expect, 


222  EVER  AFTER 

half  the  time:  as  much  harm  as  good.  Only,  of 
course,  that  doesn't  let  you  off  from  trying.  And 
from  wanting  to  try.  I'm  so  used  to  it  now,  it 
doesn't  even  discourage  me."  She  rose,  pulling  on 
her  gloves.  "It's  a  funny  world,  Dana.  Better 
learn  to  laugh.     It  helps." 

He  shook  his  head.     "You  don't  understand." 

"Oh,  don't  I?"  Her  brown  eyes  twinkled. 
"I  know  what  happened  as  well  as  if  I  had  been 
there:  Lucy  with  her  worried  Grandpa  look,  Dana 
proud  and  sensitive  and  thinking  it  right  to  be  proud 
and  sensitive,  poor  fool  of  a  man!  Now  come  and 
have  supper  with  me  and  tell  me  what  you  are 
doing." 

He  was  too  forlorn  to  resist,  so  she  bore  him  off, 
and  the  homelike  meal,  the  easy  companionship, 
brought  a  dim  comfort.  But  they  weakened  his 
defences.  The  numbness  that  had  made  the  days 
possible  was  threatened.  He  stayed  as  late  as  he 
dared  in  dread  of  what  solitude  might  bring,  then 
tramped  himself  into  apathy  before  he  turned  home. 

Spring  was  in  the  air  as  he  walked  uptown  late 
the  next  afternoon.  The  inexorable  opening  was 
at  hand.  City  squares  hinted  it  in  their  swelling 
green,  city  birds  chirped  it,  city  eyes  glanced  it  into 
his  moody  face.  The  joy  of  the  pavements  was  as 
dead  for  Dana  as  all  other  joy,  but  he  caught  the 
day's  suspense,  the  sense  of  coming  riches,  and  grew 


EVER  AFTER  223 

alert  for  whom  or  what  he  might  pass.  A  figure  half 
seen  in  the  crowd,  a  gently  rounded  girl  who  lifted 
sudden  blue  eyes,  sent  a  shock  through  all  his  being 
and  roused  an  insane  hope.  He  could  angrily  assert 
that  there  was  no  one  on  earth  he  wanted  to  see; 
but  he  could  not  put  back  the  coming  season. 

An  art  dealer's  window  displayed  a  single  picture, 
set  forth  with  an  air  of  consequence.  Dana,  seeing 
others  pause,  threw  it  a  careless  glance;  and  so 
brought  down  upon  himself  the  waiting  torrent  of 
spring.  The  picture  showed  a  single  rounded  wave 
of  land  heaving  up  into  a  sky  of  noble  breadth. 
It  was  the  sky  that  dominated,  a  vast,  overarching 
splendour  of  sky  beneath  which  the  little  world  of 
farm  and  wood  was  only  a  streaming  summer  green- 
ness and  a  blur  of  woodland  shadow;  but  its  outlines 
were  unmistakable.  "The  Heavens  Declare  the 
Glory  of  God"  was  written  on  the  card  beneath. 
As  Ludlam  had  explained,  "They  like  a  title." 
His  name  was  not  needed  to  set  Dana's  feet  on  the 
hills  of  Sky  Farm.  He  stood  with  the  June  wind 
on  his  face  and  the  shimmer  of  June  romance  in 
his  eyes,  the  bleak  present  forgotten.  When  others 
began  to  glance  at  him  and  to  crowd  about  the 
picture,  he  strode  on;  but  he  was  no  longer  alone. 
He  would  never  be  alone  again,  so  long  as  he  walked 
this  earth.  The  love  that  had  come  to  him  under 
that  great  sky  was  for  life,  and  Lucy  would   be 


224  EVER  AFTER 

there  against  his  arm  until  the  arm  withered.  His 
defences  were  down. 

A  premonition  of  coming  pain,  pain  too  horrible 
to  be  borne,  drove  him  savagely  on.  He  tried  to 
remember  only  the  girl  of  Sky  Farm,  but,  before 
he  could  turn  from  it,  he  saw  Lucy's  face  as  he  had 
last  seen  it,  wide-eyed,  stricken,  yet,  some  way, 
brave:  the  lips  had  kept  their  line,  the  throat  had 
not  bent. 

"Don't!"  he  breathed.  He  had  feared  that  an 
hour  must  come  when  he  realized  his  own  hurt,  but 
he  had  not  reckoned  with  the  hour  that  should  show 
him  how  he  had  hurt  his  wife.  Lucy  warm  and 
colourful,  wide  open  to  love  and  merriment  —  and 
then  this  frozen  woman,  with  her  stabbed  look  and 
her  proud  stillness. 

"It  couldn't  be  helped,"  he  flung  out.  "I  did 
my  best.  It  had  to  be."  But  flinging  hard  facts 
at  it  could  not  drive  away  the  vision. 

Till  now  his  own  apathy  had  been  a  surprise  to 
Dana,  sometimes  a  reproach;  a  dull,  bleak,  miserable 
boredom  did  not  seem  enough  to  pay  for  the  wreck 
of  his  married  life,  and  the  absence  of  acute  anguish 
had  suggested  to  him  more  than  once  that,  after 
all,  he  had  very  little  heart.  To-night  he  learned 
better.  His  dazed  heart  awoke  to  its  depths  and 
proved  itself  as  great  in  pain  as  it  had  been  in 
joy.    There  was  no  suffering  due  that  he  had  not 


EVER  AFTER  225 

paid  in  full  before  the  dawn  touched  his  haggard 
face. 

By  breakfast  time  he  was  at  Candace's  door. 

"What  can  I  do?"  he  asked.  He  was  as  unself- 
conscious  as  a  child  in  his  helplessness  and  his 
despair.  "Candy,  tell  me  what  to  do."  She  laid 
her  friendly  hand  on  his  arm,  and  he  clung  to  it. 

"Go  to  Boston,"  she  counselled. 

"But  —  how  can  I?  I  can't  ask  her  to  come  yet, 
even  if  she  would.  And  I  can't  go  back  to  —  what 
was.  Never!  Not  for  anything  on  earth.  So 
what  can  I  say  to  her?" 

"Say  that.  Or  don't  say  anything.  Just  go 
to  her.  You'll  find  a  way  when  you  have  —  seen 
each  other."  She  smiled  faintly  into  the  gaunt 
tragedy  of  his  face.  "Come  and  have  some  coffee, 
and  then  I'll  show  you  the  things  I  am  sending  over 
to  you,"  she  added. 

If  Dana  had  not  been  so  drowned  in  trouble,  he 
would  have  wondered  how  Candace  could  spare  so 
many  furnishings.  She  had  them  together  in  a 
corner  of  the  studio,  ready  for  the  express  —  several 
delightful  chairs,  an  old  carved  table,  a  rug  or  two, 
a  brass  lamp,  a  pile  of  cushions. 

"I  was  getting  too  crowded  here,"  she  explained 
casually.  "You  will  have  almost  enough  to  begin 
on,  now." 

He  looked  at  them  vaguely,  yet  with  a  desolate 


226  EVER  AFTER 

gratitude.     "You're  so  good  to  me,"  he  muttered. 
"If  I  only  knew  what  to  do!" 

"Go  and  ask  Lucy,"  was  her  parting  advice. 
The  words  rang  in  his  ears  all  day.  He  could 
reason  down  the  advice,  point  out  the  hopelessness 
of  going  to  a  deeply  offended  woman  with  nothing 
tangible  to  offer,  not  even  a  whole-hearted,  "I  was 
wrong;"  yet  the  idea  presented  itself  over  and  over 
with  undiscouraged  freshness.  "Go  and  ask  Lucy." 
Mr.  Dickson  heard  him  murmur  the  words  over  his 
work,  and  broke  out  with  affectionate  testiness. 

"Malone,  you  look  like  a  ghost.  What  are  you 
saying  there?    What  on  earth  is  the  matter?" 

Dana  stared  at  him  as  from  another  planet;  then 
laid  down  his  pen  and  rose. 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  go  to  Boston,"  he  said.  "If 
I  take  the  five  o'clock,  I  can  have  two  or  three  hours 
there  and  be  back  in  the  morning." 

"Don't  do  that:  stay  all  night.  If  you  are  here 
Wednesday  morning,  that  will  do." 

Dana  thanked  him  and  hurried  uptown  to  his 
rooms.  There  was  relief  in  taking  action;  and  there 
was  a  sudden,  unlooked  for,  mighty  joy  in  going 
to  Lucy.  For  the  first  time,  he  entered  his  building 
with  the  step  and  bearing  of  a  young  man. 

A  dark  bundle  lay  against  his  door.  Suspecting 
an  offering  from  Candace,  Dana  went  alertly  toward 
it,  then  stopped  with  an  astonished,  "Hello!"     For 


EVER  AFTER  227 

the  bundle  proved  to  be  a  very  dirty,  ragged  boy, 
asleep  with  his  face  on  his  arm.  At  Dana's  excla- 
mation, he  lifted  his  head,  and  the  eyes  of  old 
Spain,  mournfully  brown,  set  in  blue-white  and 
rimmed  with  dense  black  fringe,  looked  drowsily 
up  from  a  dark  face  that  seemed  to  have  been  rubbed 
in  coal.  As  he  scrambled  to  his  feet,  his  age,  by 
his  height,  might  have  been  eight  or  nine,  but  there 
were  probably  several  more  years  concealed  about 
his  meagre  little  person.  The  face  had  a  pinched 
maturity.  He  said  nothing,  but  stared  up  into 
Dana's  face  with  a  tense  expectancy  somewhat 
trying  to  a  man  in  a  hurry.  Dana  unlocked  the 
door. 

"Are  you  waiting  for  me  —  Dana  Malone?"  he 
asked.  "I  haven't  much  time.  Come  in  and  tell 
me  what  you  want." 

The  boy  stood  just  within  the  door,  but  he  still 
did  not  seem  able  to  speak.  If  Dana  had  not  been 
more  interested  in  getting  down  his  bag,  he  would 
have  seen  that  the  little  figure  shook  in  its  scarecrow 
clothes,  and  that  the  jaw  was  clenched  to  control 
its  trembling.  The  bag  had  proved  full  of  odds  and 
ends,  and  Dana  was  tumbling  them  out.  "What 
is  your  name?"  he  added  without  looking  up.  A 
faint  whisper  came  from  over  by  the  door.  "Oh, 
speak  up  like  a  man,"  he  threw  out  good-humouredly. 
"Do  I  know  you?" 


228  EVER  AFTER 

The  boy  tugged  at  an  envelope  that  was  wedged 
in  a  pocket.  When  he  had  it  out,  he  came  slowly 
forward,  and  Dana,  glancing  up,  saw  that  it  was  not 
timidity  that  hampered  him.  The  expectant  eyes 
showed  even  the  spark  of  a  smile. 

"I'm  Luis,"  he  whispered,  as  one  who  tells  a  glad 
secret.  Then  he  melted  down  on  the  floor  as  if  his 
little  spine  had  been  withdrawn.  The  envelope 
fell  beside  him,  face  up,  and  Dana  read  in  his  own 
handwriting  the  name  of  Luis  Valdez.  For  the  mo- 
ment he  was  too  astonished  to  move. 

"For  the  Lord's  sake!"  he  muttered;  and  then, 
"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that!" 

There  was  no  time  to  confront  the  problem. 
When  a  few  drops  of  spirits  had  revived  the  boy, 
Dana  lifted  him  to  the  couch,  gave  him  a  cup  of 
water,  and  beat  up  raw  eggs  in  milk  with  frowning 
haste. 

"Pretty  hungry?"  he  asked.  Luis's  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  bowl  with  a  devouring  intentness  that 
needed  no  words.  Dana  fed  him  slow  spoonfuls, 
and,  in  spite  of  his  dismay,  the  joy  of  rescue  began 
to  warm  his  eyes  and  voice  as  strength  visibly  came 
back  to  his  tattered  guest.  When  he  had  set  down 
the  bowl,  he  passed  an  investigating  hand  along  the 
thin  arms  and  legs. 

"Well,  did  you  walk  from  California?" 

"Oh,  no."     Luis  smiled  over  the  joke.     "Only 


EVER  AFTER  229 

from  —  what  was  it?  The  big  animal  —  Buffalo. 
And  I  got  lots  of  rides." 

"Only  from  Buffalo,"  Dana  repeated.  "And 
you  did  all  that  to  find  me?" 

"You  will  make  me  a  musician,"  said  Luis  con- 
fidently. "You  will  be  good  to  me  like  Mr.  Bynner 
was  to  you." 

"Oh,  I  see."  Dana  hesitated,  then  firmly  went 
on:  "But,  you  know,  Luis,  I  haven't  any  money 
now.     I  wrote  you  that." 

"Oh,  I  will  get  you  some,"  Luis  reassured  him. 
"I  can  earn  all  I  want.  Have  you  got  an  old  flute 
or  anything?" 

"A  flute?" 

"I  will  play  it  on  the  street,  so."  Luis  curled  his 
hands  to  the  left  of  his  grimy  face,  and  looked  up 
over  the  imaginary  instrument  with  eyes  so  mournful, 
so  appealing,  so  rich  in  old-world  mystery,  that  Dana 
could  almost  hear  some  little  wailing  air.  Then  he 
dropped  the  instrument  and  winked  without  shame. 
"That  gets  'em,"  he  explained. 

"My  Lord!"  murmured  Dana,  and  fell  into 
appalled  silence.  Luis  reached  out  for  the  bowl 
and  finished  its  contents  without  ceremony. 

"Got  any  more?"  he  asked. 

Dana  roused  himself  with  a  sigh.  A  city  clock 
had  just  struck  five.  "By  and  by,"  he  said.  "Tell 
me,  did  you  earn  the  money  to  get  to  Buffalo?" 


230  EVER  AFTER 

A  startling  change  came  over  the  pinched  face, 
so  cheerfully  impudent  the  moment  before.  Its 
flash  into  anger  was  like  the  drawing  of  a  knife. 

"It  was  mine,"  he  declared  shrilly,  rising  up  in  a 
fury  of  self-defence.  "Mine!  Father  Murphy  said 
so.  Mr.  Bynner  left  it  to  me,  'my  piano  to  my 
little  friend  Luis  Valdez '  —  like  that,  in  writing. 
It  was  mine!" 

Dana  put  a  quieting  hand  on  his  shoulder,  pushing 
him  gently  down  again.     "Who  took  it  away  from 

you?" 

"My  father  and  mother."  Luis  spat  like  an  angry 
cat.  "Pigs!  I  told  them,  *I  will  kill  you  if  you  sell 
it!'  And  they  sold  it  that  very  day.  Pigs!  They 
hid  the  money  under  the  stove.  I  was  three  nights 
finding  it.  They  caught  me  looking,  but  they  were 
so  drunk  they  only  laughed.  Pigs!  Pigs!"  His 
passion  of  hate  was  distressing.  Dana  tried  to 
divert  him  from  it. 

"How  could  you  get  a  ticket,  a  little  chap  like 
you?    They  wouldn't  sell  it  to  you,  would  they?  " 

Luis  dropped  back  at  once  into  his  normal  com- 
placency. "Oh,  I  always  get  along.  I  can  do  any- 
thing: it  is  quite  re-markable.  I  told  a  man  a  story 
about  being  an  orphan  and  my  uncle  sending  for  me, 
so  he  bought  the  ticket,  and  his  wife  gave  me  things 
to  eat  out  of  her  basket;  it  was  fine  till  we  got  to 
Chicago.    That  was  all  the  far  they  went." 


EVER  AFTER  231 

"But  that  was  a  lie,"  said  Dana. 

"Oh,  yes.  I  can  tell  a  better  lie  than  any  boy 
in  my  school;"  and  Luis  smiled  in  simple  pride. 
"Have  you  got  a  piece  of  bread?"  Dana  rose  in 
silence  and  shut  the  kitchen  door  between  himself 
and  his  acquisition.  He  felt  an  exhausted  need 
of  solitude. 

He  was  not  left  very  long  to  confront  his  problem. 
Luis  unceremoniously  followed. 

"Did  you  find  that  piece  of  bread?"  he  demanded, 
and  seemed  so  restored  that  Dana  set  out  a  supper 
for  him.  He  wanted  to  resent  the  intruder,  whose 
coming  had  so  intolerably  upset  his  plans,  but  for 
the  life  of  him  he  could  not.  The  little  fellow's 
melancholy,  old-world  eyes,  his  perfect  assurance, 
and  his  dangling  rags  combined  to  give  him  an 
absurd  charm.  Dana  found  himself  on  the  verge 
of  a  laugh  as  he  cut  the  desired  piece  of  bread. 

"Perhaps  you  would  like  to  wash  before  you  eat," 
he  suggested. 

"No,"  was  the  positive  answer.  "But  I  will 
wash  afterward,"  Luis  conceded,  after  a  mouthful 
pause.  "I  take  a  bath  at  Father  Murphy's  every 
Saturday;  that  is  how  I  pay  him  for  letting  me 
practise  on  his  piano.  My  father  and  mother  do 
not  wash  at  all.     They  are  pigs." 

Dana  hastened  to  change  the  subject.  "Father 
Murphy  has  been  good  to  you,"  he  said. 


232  EVER  AFTER 

"Oh,  yes,  Father  Murphy  and  Mr.  Bynner. 
They  were  my  two  friends.  They  learned  me  my 
English;  my  father  and  mother  are  so  ignorant,  they 
talk  nothing  but  Spanish.  That  is  why  I  speak  so 
good.     Not  like  other  boys." 

"And  does  Father  Murphy  know  where  you  are?" 

Luis  shook  his  head,  being  beyond  speech  at  the 
moment.  "You  will  write  him  a  letter,"  he  ex- 
plained when  he  could.  "You  tell  him  that  when 
I  am  a  great  musician,  I  will  go  back  to  see  him; 
but  if  my  father  and  mother  come  after  me,  I  will 
kill  them  with  a  knife."  He  looked  quite  capable 
of  trying  it,  with  the  bread  knife  caught  up  in  his 
fist  and  the  sudden  glint  in  his  brown  eyes.  Dana 
rose  from  the  corner  of  the  table  with  a  distracted 
gesture. 

"What  in  thunder  am  I  going  to  do  with  you?" 
he  exclaimed. 

The  doorbell  roused  a  fervent  hope  of  Candace; 
but  it  was  her  furniture  to  which  he  opened.  He  was 
touched  when  he  realized  how  much  she  had  sent. 
There  were  even  books  and  a  sketch  or  two.  The 
room  looked  pleasantly  inhabited  when  he  and  Luis 
had  everything  in  place.  The  glow  of  the  work  and 
of  the  hope  that  lay  back  of  it  had  cleared  Dana's 
face  of  its  habitual  shadow. 

"And  now,  young  man,  you  for  the  bathtub," 
he  said  genially,  and  went  to  turn  on  the  water. 


EVER  AFTER  233 

When  he  came  back,  Luis  was  standing  in  the  door- 
way of  the  little  room.  "Here,  come  out  of  there!'* 
Dana  spoke  so  sharply  that  the  boy  started.  "You 
mustn't  go  in  there,"  he  added  more  gently,  closing 
the  door.     "That  is  my  wife's  room." 

Luis  kicked  off  his  clothes  with  undampened 
cheerfulness.  "Will  she  sleep  there  to-night?"  he 
asked. 

"No,  not  to-night." 

"When?" 

"I  can't  say.  Run  along  now  and  see  that  you 
get  clean." 

Luis,  emerging  several  shades  lighter,  found  a  bed 
made  up  of  cushions  and  a  rug,  and  a  clean  garment 
for  him  to  sleep  in.  He  settled  himself  with  wriggles 
of  satisfaction,  and  his  mysterious  eyes,  already 
heavy  with  sleep,  fixed  themselves  on  his  host  with 
an  intensity  that  presently  made  Dana  pause  by 
the  improvised  bed. 

"Well?"  he  asked.  Luis  put  up  two  fairly  clean 
hands  and  curled  them  tightly  about  his  fingers. 

"I'll  earn  money  for  you,"  he  said  earnestly,  "and 
run  your  errands,  and  I  can  cook  for  you;  I  can  do 
anything.    And  when  I  am  bad,  you  can  lick  me." 

Dana  gave  the  hands  a  comradely  pressure. 
"All  right,  old  boy,"  he  said  gravely.  And  so  the 
compact  of  lasting  affection  was  signed  and  sealed 
between  them. 


234  EVER  AFTER, 

After  Luis  was  asleep,  Dana  sat  for  a  long  time 
over  a  letter  to  Father  Murphy. 

"I  am  not  well  placed  for  taking  the  responsibility,"  he  wrote, 
"but  he  is  here,  and  I  want  to  carry  out  my  promise  to  Mr. 
Bynner.  I  will"  —  he  paused,  staring  darkly  into  the  future, 
then  wrote  on  —  "legally  adopt  the  boy,  if  you  think  it  best,  and 
can  get  his  parents'  consent.  And  I  will  see  that  he  grows  up 
in  the  church  that  has  been  so  good  to  him.  I  shall  probably 
not  keep  him  in  my  home  —  there  are  others  to  be  consulted. 
But  I  will  be  responsible  for  him.  I  realize  the  seriousness  of 
what  I  am  undertaking  —  and  the  difficulties,  just  now,  are 
especially  great;  but  it  is  the  only  way  of  paying  the  greatest 
debt  of  my  life.    And  I  like  the  little  chap." 

It  was  not  a  letter  to  mail  on  first  impulse.  Dana 
put  it  by  and  sent  a  telegram  to  Father  Murphy, 
saying  that  the  boy  was  safe.  He  longed  to  go  to 
Candace,  but  he  had  run  to  her  with  his  troubles 
once  that  day,  and  pride  withheld  him.  He  did 
go  to  the  mother  of  one  of  his  pupils,  a  generous 
woman  with  a  family  of  boys,  who  laughed  up- 
roariously over  his  dilemma,  and  gave  him  enough 
clothes  to  set  up  Luis  in  overwhelming  respectability. 
Being  a  good  Catholic,  she  also  gave  him  a  note 
to  a  kindly  priest  in  his  neighbourhood.  So  Dana 
went  on  to  Father  Grant,  and  made  him  also  chuckle 
over  the  tale  of  Luis.  He  could  laugh  at  it  himself 
now.    As  Candy  had  said,  it  was  a  funny  world. 

"Bring  the  boy  round  to  me;'*  Father  Grant  was 
shaking  Dana's  hand   with   shrewd   liking.     "We 


EVER  AFTER  235 

must  clap  him  into  school  —  that's  the  first  thing. 
Malone  —  Malone,"  he  added  ruminatingly.  "By 
the  sound  of  that  name,  you  should  be  one  of  us." 
He  seemed  so  secure,  so  content,  so  unharassed  by 
life,  this  hardy  little  man,  that  Dana's  heart  went 
out  to  him. 

"I  wish  I  were,"  he  said;  then,  seeing  a  spark  of 
interest  in  the  other's  eyes,  he  added  a  smiling, 
"But  my  wife  is  a  Boston  Unitarian,  Father.  So 
it  wouldn't  do." 

"Ah  —  so  there's  a  wife?" 

Dana  flushed,  and  for  an  instant  his  trouble 
looked  out  of  his  sombre  eyes.  "She  is  not  with 
me  just  at  present,"  he  said,  turning  away. 

"If  she  were  a  good  Catholic  she  would  be," 
said  the  Father  with  a  disciplinary  nod. 

There  was  no  question  of  going  to  Boston  now. 
Dana  devoted  the  morning  to  Luis's  affairs,  testing 
his  musical  gift,  which  was  remarkable,  and  taking 
him,  a  little  subdued  by  his  whole  and  neat  clothes, 
to  see  his  new  spiritual  director.  In  the  afternoon 
he  went  back  to  his  office,  mailing  his  letter  to 
Father  Murphy  on  the  way. 

"It  is  only  a  matter  of  earning  a  little  more,"  he 
asserted  with  a  brave  front. 

Luis,  left  to  himself,  had  none  of  the  well  brought 
up  child's  helplessness.  When  he  had  practised  as 
long  as  his  restless  body  would  permit,  he  went  out 


236  EVER  AFTER 

into  the  streets  and  investigated  the  neighbourhood 
with  the  thoroughness  of  a  detective  or  a  fox  terrier. 
He  discovered  the  Park,  found  a  nearly  whole 
cigarette  and  smoked  it,  murmured  outrageous 
Spanish  epithets  at  an  unconscious  policeman,  lured 
a  cat  from  an  area  wall  with  ardent  blandishments 
and  caressed  it  with  half  shut  eyes  of  ecstasy,  then 
frightened  it  almost  into  hysterics  by  a  sudden  leap 
and  yell;  and  paused  before  every  sheet  of  glass 
he  could  find  to  study  his  well-clad  person.  This 
pleased  him  so  much  that  he  begged  a  broken  carna- 
tion from  a  flower  stand  and  strutted  home  with 
a  decorated  buttonhole,  triumphal  music  streaming 
through  his  curiously  aged  little  soul. 

A  studio  door  by  the  elevator  was  open,  and  Luis 
paused  to  look  in.  Within,  two  men  stood  before 
a  large  canvas,  one  with  a  hat  in  his  hand,  in  the 
attitude  of  departure.  The  other  threw  him  a 
quick,  irritable  glance. 

"I  don't  want  any  models,"  he  said  over  his 
shoulder. 

"I  haven't  got  any,  if  you  did,"  said  Luis  com- 
posedly. The  larger  man  turned  at  that,  showing 
a  ruddy,  handsome  face  swept  by  a  big  gray  mous- 
tache, and  eyes  twinkling  with  laughter. 

"Just  calling?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  I  thought  I'd  look  in,"  Luis  explained, 
turning  away  with  a  bored  air. 


EVER  AFTER  237 

"Interested  in  art,  perhaps?" 

"I  wouldn't  encourage  him,  Jacks,"  Ludlam 
threw  in. 

"I  am  a  musician;"  Luis  answered  exclusively 
to  Jacks.  "I  have  re-markable  talent.  They  all 
say  that." 

"Delighted  to  hear  it,"  said  Jacks.  "Are  you 
living  in  these  parts?" 

"I  live  on  this  floor,  at  the  back." 

Ludlam  turned  at  that.  "Who  are  you,  any- 
way?" he  asked. 

"Mr.  Malone's  Luis." 

The  two  men  glanced  surprise  at  each  other. 
"I  didn't  know  he  had  a  Luis,"  Jacks  said  jokingly. 

"Oh,  yes.  I  have  come  from  California  to  live 
with  him  and  become  a  great  musician."  Luis 
strolled  away  with  Castilian  dignity.  "I  will  play 
for  you  some  time,"  he  threw  back  over  his  shoulder 
to  Palmer;  "but  not  to  him." 

Palmer  had  lost  his  air  of  imminent  departure. 
"That's  a  queer  business,"  he  exclaimed.  "Though 
it  is  some  pupil,  of  course,"  he  added. 

"No  doubt,"  said  Ludlam,  a  smile  that  was  very 
small  half  hidden  in  his  blond  beard.  "It  fits  in 
curiously,  though,  with  what  one  heard  about  the 
Malones'  wedding  trip." 

"You  mean  that  they  cut  it  short?" 

"I  mean  that  something  happened  to  make  them 


238  EVER  AFTER 

leave  San  Francisco  a  few  hours  after  they  got 
there." 

"Everybody  knows  everything,"  Palmer  muttered 
with  a  short  sigh.     "  Who  told  you?  " 

Ludlam  forbore  to  say  that  it  was  Jacks  himself. 
"Oh,  one  hears,"  he  explained. 

Palmer  straightened  up  bluffly,  clapping  on  his 
hat.     "Miss  Ware  will  know  all  about  it.     I  will 

just  drop  in  there "     He  paused,  shaking  his 

head.  "Every  Calif ornian  has  a  past,"  he  observed 
humorously.  "You're  always  stumbling  on  it  unex- 
pectedly. They  don't  mind  it.  Gad  —  when  a 
New  England  woman  has  a  history,  it's  written  all 
over  her;  but  it  shakes  off  a  Westerner  like  water 
off  a  duck."  He  started  to  go,  then  paused  in  the 
doorway.     "How  long  have  you  known  Miss  Ware?" 

"Oh,  only  a  few  years.     Never  well." 

Palmer  visibly  wrestled  with  temptation,  and 
conquered.  "Well,  she's  a  mighty  fine  woman," 
he  said,  with  a  sigh  for  what  he  might  not  reveal. 
"I'll  ask  her  about  'Mr.  Malone's  Luis.'" 

"I  am  just  running  down  to  Boston  myself. 
I  may  hear  something  there,"  Ludlam  said,  a  dis- 
agreeable satisfaction  in  his  sidelong  glance. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

The  front  door  had  closed  and  Dana  had  gone,  but 
Lucy  still  sat  stiffly  erect  by  the  blaze  that  had 
wrought  so  much  havoc.  In  all  her  gentle  life,  she 
had  never  before  been  absolutely  angry,  and  her 
anger  was  to  her  a  terrible  and  sickening  thing 
that  hardened  her  soul  to  granite,  but  set  her 
body  trembling  and  shaking  as  though  dissolu- 
tion were  at  hand.  She  gave  no  heed  then 
to  the  charge  Dana  had  made  —  merely  flung  it 
from  her  as  she  might  have  flung  off  a  noisome 
insect:  the  bitter  failure  of  his  love  was  all  that  she 
could  see. 

"He  is  not  worth  bothering  about,"  she  said  with 
a  gesture  of  dismissal;  but  still  the  humiliating  physi- 
cal weakness  held  her. 

Presently  a  maid's  entrance  with  letters  acted  like 
a  call  to  arms,  steadying  her  nerves  and  giving 
her  back  her  composure.  She  announced,  with  a 
coolness  that  startled  herself,  that  Mr.  Malone  .had 
been  called  to  New  York;  and  so  took  up  again  the 
interrupted  business  of  living.  She  had  to  make 
the  announcement  many  times  in  the  weeks  that 

239 


240  EVER  AFTER 

followed;  and  never  before  had  she  been  so  brave 
with  the  family,  so  bold  with  circumstances. 

"Lucy  is  developing  quite  a  manner,"  Aunt  Mar- 
garet conceded.  "Marriage  is  bringing  her  out." 
Mrs.  Mortimer  Cuyler  was  "at  home,"  and  Lucy 
was  pouring  tea  for  her,  and  talking  merrily  from 
behind  the  urn. 

"Yes,  she  really  has  —  it  is,"  Cousin  Susie  agreed. 
The  family  were  touchingly  accordant  when  Aunt 
Margaret  praised.     "And  how  pretty  she  looks ! " 

"Happiness  is  a  great  beautifier,"  was  the  bland 
answer.  Being  in  a  benignant  mood,  Aunt  Mar- 
garet presently  repeated  this  to  Lucy:  "Susie 
and  I  have  just  agreed,  my  dear,  that  happiness 
is  a  great  beautifier."  Lucy's  eyes,  clear  and 
smiling,  met  hers  without  flinching. 

"Ah,  I  wish  you  would  let  me  give  you  another 
cup  of  tea,"  she  returned. 

She  had  quite  a  success  that  afternoon,  and,  in 
a  hard,  new  fashion,  she  enjoyed  it.  Her  spirit, 
sternly  forbidden  sorrow,  turned  passionately  to 
excitement.  The  young  men  of  the  family  hovered 
about  her,  visibly  surprised.  Mortimer,  Jr.,  insisted  on 
having  the  chair  beside  her  whenever  it  was  vacant. 

"Why  don't  you  like  us?"  he  demanded,  when 
the  calls  on  her  had  slackened.  At  her  protest,  he 
explained  with  boyish  bluntness  that  she  always 
went  with  "the  poky  side  of  the  family." 


EVER  AFTER  241 

"But  I  never  supposed  that  the  gay  side  would 
like  me,"  she  said,  so  naively  that  he  shouted. 

"I  used  to  be  deathly  afraid  of  you,"  he  confided. 
"I'm  not  a  bit  now.  Suppose  we  have  a  tearing  old 
flirtation  while  Dana  is  away?" 

"Suppose  we  do,"  said  Lucy.  "Only  you  will 
have  to  show  me  how.     I  haven't  the  least  idea." 

"Oh,  I  will!"  he  promised.  Then  an  older  rela- 
tive displaced  him,  bringing  up  some  one  who  had 
begged  an  introduction.  Others  followed.  If  they 
were  discovering  her,  she  was  also  discovering  them. 
She  had  not  dreamed  that  she  could  be  so  at  home 
with  this  "gay  side"  of  her  family.  What  nice 
people  they  were!  And  she  had  only  to  show  her- 
self willing,  to  turn  them  all  into  friends. 

"I  shall  need  friends,"  she  admitted,  then  shiv- 
ered away  from  what  lay  back  of  the  thought. 
She  saw  the  rooms  emptying  with  a  regret  that  was 
half  terror. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  Cuyler,  handsome  and  resplen- 
dent, paused  amusedly  to  lay  a  finger  on  her  burning 
cheek. 

"Why,  Lucy,  you  are  coming  out,"  she  said. 
"I  had  no  idea  you  were  such  a  flirt." 

"Don't  let  them  go,  Aunt  Frances,"  Lucy  begged. 
"Make  Laura  sing." 

Others,  overhearing,  took  up  the  request,  and 
the  daughter  of  the  house  was  presently  led  to  the 


242  EVER  AFTER 

piano.  Her  contralto  voice  swept  richly  through 
the  rooms,  silencing  the  few  scattered  groups  that 
remained.  The  demand  for  an  encore  was  insistent, 
and  Mrs.  Cuyler,  with  a  smiling  glance  at  Lucy, 
murmured  a  request. 

"I  am  not  sure  I  know  it,"  Laura  objected;  "I'll 
try,  though.  It  is  an  Irish  song  of  Cousin  Dana's," 
she  added  to  those  about  her.  "I  have  seen  it  only 
in  manuscript." 

She  struck  a  chord,  and  Lucy,  standing  in  the 
doorway,  felt  the  ground  shake  and  open  under  her 
feet.  She  glanced  about  for  a  way  of  escape; 
but  some  one  was  placing  a  chair  for  her,  and 
there  was  no  clear  way  out.  So  she  sat  down, 
bravely  erect,  her  hands  folded  together  on  her 
knee. 

"Ah,  Mother  of  Christ,  who  trod  this  path  — 
You  were  Mary,  too,  like  me — " 

The  rich  voice  was  thinned  to  evoke  wild  images  — 
ghosts  and  dreams  and  a  loneness  that  rose  to  a 
haunting  cry. 

"It  is  fortunate  that  I  am  too  angry  to  have  any 
heart;"  Lucy  spoke  as  quietly  to  her  soul  as  she 
might  have  to  a  neighbour.  "Otherwise,  this  song 
would  have  broken  it.  I  am  glad  that  I  don't  feel 
things  any  longer.     It  is  a  great  gain.     I  never 


EVER  AFTER  243 

supposed  that  I  could  sit  through  this  and  not  care 
in  the  least.     I  am  very  proud  of  myself." 

"You  were  Mary  Alone  like  me!" 

crooned  the  longing  voice. 

"I'd  better  keep  on  talking  to  myself;  it  is  safer," 
went  on  the  silent  monologue  over  by  the  door. 
"I  am  a  coward  in  many  ways,  but  a  good  soldier 
under  fire.  I  don't  go  to  pieces.  That  isn't 
boasting  —  it  is  merely  reminding  myself.  It  takes 
a  good  soldier  to  sit  like  this  where  every  one  can 
look,  and  let  herself  be  torn  to  bits  without  giving 
a  sign.  And  I  am  not  really  minding  it;  I  don't 
think  she  sings  it  very  well.  Oh,  if  she  would  only 
stop!  Lucy,  Lucy!  I  was  called  a  flirt  to-day. 
Isn't  that  too  funny?  I  didn't  know  it  was  flirting 
till  Aunt  Frances  said  so,  but  it  was  very  amusing. 
I  must  do  it  again.  She  is  mixing  up  the  words: 
it  is  the  'lone  white  mist'  that  is  to  her  knee.  Still, 
I  never  thought  much  about  the  words  —  the  music 
was  what  I  cared  about.  That  was  a  hundred  years 
ago,  before  I  had  died  and  the  worms  had  eaten  me. 
O  God,  if  she  would  only  stop!  I  tell  you,  I  don't 
care.  He  has  gone  out  of  my  life.  That  part  of 
it  is  done.  I  can  do  without  love.  I  am  going  to  be 
big  and  wise  and  calm:  I  must  expect  to  be  hurt  like 
this  very  often,  and  sitting  here  is  splendid  training. 


244  EVER  AFTER 

I  am  glad  to  prove  that  I  can  do  it.  I  wouldn't  cry 
if  it  cost  me  my  —  oh,  will  it  never  end?  I  am  not 
really  in  pain  —  I  only  think  I  am.  My  heart  is 
nothing  but  a  little  cold  piece  of  granite,  with  a  crack 
in  it.  It  is  good  to  be  done  with  the  whole  thing. 
I  must  plan  how  I  shall  fill  my  days.  If  I  had 
pencil  and  paper,  it  would  be  easier.  Dana  always 
planned  everything  on  the  backs  of  envelopes. 
Lucy,  Lucy,  don't!  I  must  keep  up.  If  I  could 
only  die  of  it.  I  am  so  ill.  Oh,  the  walls  —  look  — 
here  they  come!  If  I  am  killed,  I  can  cry  all  I 
want  to.  Dana,  love,  I  tried  not  to  break  down  — 
I  did  try " 

As  the  song  came  to  an  end,  a  startled  movement 
about  the  doorway  checked  the  applause.  Mrs. 
Dana  Malone  had  fainted.  She  was  quickly  lifted 
into  the  next  room,  and  in  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Cuy- 
ler  came  out  to  reassure  the  guests.  It  was  nothing : 
Lucy  had  been  overexcited,  and  was  all  right  now, 
though  her  nerves  were  upset.  There  was  a  little 
invisible  smiling  among  the  older  women,  and  eye- 
brows were  imperceptibly  lifted.  These  faintings 
of  young  married  women  were  not  usually  fatal, 
they  implied.  Then  Aunt  Frances  went  back  to 
Lucy,  who  lay  with  her  face  to  the  wall,  and  sobbed 
and  sobbed. 

"It's  nothing;  I  can't  help  it,"  she  stammered. 
"Oh,  please  let  me,  just  this  once!" 


EVER  AFTER  245 

Aunt  Frances  sent  away  the  others  and  let  her 
have  it  out,  sitting  beside  her  in  graceful  silence. 
She  would  have  kept  her  all  night,  but  Lucy,  white 
and  spent,  insisted  on  going  home.  Her  aunt  kissed 
her  lightly  on  both  cheeks. 

"We  don't  see  half  enough  of  each  other  in  this 
great  family,"  she  said.  "I  am  coming  in  to  have 
a  little  visit  with  you  in  the  morning."  Lucy 
pressed  gratefully  against  her,  but  said  nothing. 

To  give  herself  up  to  pain,  to  forget  pride  and 
admit  that  she  was  hurt  even  unto  death,  was  a  wild 
relief,  after  those  frozen  days  and  nights.  Lucy 
was  too  fevered  and  exhausted  to  give  thought  to 
what  had  wrecked  their  happiness:  she  could  only 
cry  out  blindly  for  what  was  lost,  and  at  last  con- 
jure up  a  presence  that  took  her  into  comforting 
arms  and  let  her  fall  asleep  with  her  cheek  on  a  dream 
shoulder. 

In  the  morning  she  felt  curiously  blank  and  ill. 
The  anguish  of  the  night  before  seemed  as  unreal  as 
a  nightmare.  The  only  realities  were  her  bodily 
misery,  and  the  fact  that  Aunt  Frances  was  coming 
to  find  out  what  was  the  matter.  Dread  of  the 
visit  goaded  her  into  dragging  herself  from  bed  and 
dressing.  The  one  clear  thought  in  her  confused 
mind  was  that  she  must  escape  it.  Before  Mrs. 
Mortimer  Cuyler  could  set  out  she  was  told  over 
the  telephone  that  Mrs.  Malone  had  run  up  to  the 


246  EVER  AFTER 

Shore  house  for  a  few  days,  and  would  call  up  her 
aunt  when  she  came  back. 

Sleet  had  fallen  along  the  coast,  and  the  bare 
trees  were  clashing  their  icy  twigs  in  a  glitter  of 
strong  sunlight.  Beyond  the  great  house  the  sea 
was  living  sapphire,  and  its  cold,  salt  breath  came 
up  the  cliffs  like  a  burst  of  health.  An  aged  collie 
trotted  out  to  question  the  arrival,  then  wept  aloud 
for  joy,  and  tried  to  gambol  with  a  dear  ridiculous- 
ness that  made  his  mistress  laugh.  The  caretaker 
stood  beaming  in  the  doorway. 

"If  I'd  had  more  time,  mem,"  she  was  apologizing. 

Her  daughter,  scarlet  with  haste,  was  scurrying 
out  of  sight  with  brushes  and  cloths.  The  greater 
part  of  the  house  was  closed,  but  a  downstairs  suite 
had  been  put  in  readiness,  and  big  fires  lighted 
the  newly  polished  andirons.  In  the  bedroom  the 
sunlight  fell  squarely  across  the  bed,  and  just  below, 
at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs,  the  surf  foamed  over  black 
rocks.     Lucy  bent  her  face  to  the  pillow. 

"Oh,  I  want  to  go  to  bed!"  she  exclaimed. 

She  lay  there  all  day  with  her  eyes  on  the  sea,  the 
collie  beside  her,  the  two  kind  women  zealous  to 
serve.  She  had  come  home,  and,  for  the  moment, 
was  dully  content.  But,  in  the  night,  a  misery  of 
pain  awoke  her.  What  had  once  been  the  dearest 
hope  of  her  life  had  come  to  her  unheeded  and 
unrecognized,  and  now  it  went  away  again.     For 


EVER  AFTER  247 

a  week  afterward  she  lay  in  the  square  of  sunlight 
and  watched  the  sea,  and  sorrowfully  wished  that 
her  life  had  been  the  one  to  go  out. 

Health  was  breathed  up  at  her  out  of  the  Atlantic 
and  a  new  softness  in  the  wind  called  her  out. 
Interesting  things  were  going  on  in  the  greenhouses 
and  the  garden,  and  presently  she  began  to  show 
earthy  hands  and  an  interest  in  seed  catalogues. 
But  with  bodily  health  came  the  mind's  inevitable 
awakening.  Lucy  had  a  remorseless  moral  intelli- 
gence. She  could  not  walk  down  a  street  without 
holding  a  secret  court  of  justice  on  every  block: 
this  nursemaid  was  unfair  to  her  charge,  that  one 
showed  sense  in  a  crisis;  this  chauffeur  was  selfishly 
snatching  a  right  of  way  not  his  and  should  be 
spoken  to,  that  chauffeur  was  so  courteous  and 
considerate  that  one  quite  longed  to  smile  at  him. 
The  moment  was  coming  when  she  must  face  the 
charge  that  she  had  flung  aside  in  her  anger,  and 
give  impartial  verdict. 

The  gardener  begged  a  word  with  her,  and  set 
forth  at  length  the  powers  of  a  new  fertilizer,  recom- 
mended at  Washington.  Lucy  listened  with  a 
worried  frown. 

"But  it  is  twice  as  expensive  as  the  old;  and  you 
have  always  had  good  results,"  she  reminded  him. 
Then,  inexplicably  to  him,  she  flushed  up  to  her  very 
hair.     "Still,  suppose  you  try  it,  if  you  are  con- 


248  EVER  AFTER 

vinced  it  is  better,"  she  conceded,  and  went  hastily 
indoors.  The  unforgettable  words  were  hurtling 
about  her  ears:  "You  are  a  miser.  You  love 
money.     You  hoard  it.     In  God's  name,  for  what?" 

The  charge  was  there,  written  in  living  letters 
before  her  shrinking  sight,  and  she  bravely  walked 
herself  up  to  it.  Passionate  denial  could  not  serve 
her  now:  it  was  a  case  for  grave  justice.  She  closed 
her  door,  shutting  out  the  wistful  collie,  and  regis- 
tered a  breathless  vow: 

"I  will  be  big  in  this  if  I  die  of  it!"  Then  she 
seated  herself,  very  erect  in  a  straight  chair,  and 
invited  all  the  witnesses  of  the  past  to  bring  in 
their  evidence. 

The  defence  crowded  forward.  There  was  her 
grandfather,  her  practical,  careful  mother,  the 
family  tone  before  the  Mortimer  Cuylers  had  broken 
away  and  introduced  reckless  new  standards:  there 
was  prudence  with  her  strict  facts  about  the  yearly 
earning  power  of  a  dollar;  there  was  righteous 
example  in  a  spendthrift  age.  Then,  when  the 
clamour  of  justification  died  down,  other  voices  began 
to  make  themselves  heard.  They  were,  at  first, 
mere  whispers  —  unheeded  comments  and  smiles, 
some  words  under  an  ancient  cartoon  of  Adrian 
Cuyler,  shown  squeezing  a  coin  until  it  dripped, 
Candace's  gibes,  and  then,  in  dreary  succession,  the 
little  tragedies  of  her  married  life.     She  remembered 


EVER  AFTER  249 

every  one,  even  that  wretched  moment  of  arrival 
in  San  Francisco;  and  things  only  half  understood 
before,  signs  of  hurt  valiantly  argued  away,  became 
horribly  plain  in  the  searching  light  of  those  last 
words.  "  You  save  it  for  its  own  sake.  You  hate 
to  give.     The  meanest  sin  on  earth " 

Suddenly  she  rose  from  her  chair,  looking  about 
her  with  startled  eyes,  as  though  on  changed  sur- 
roundings. 

"It  is  true!"  she  said  aloud. 

The  verdict  was  "Guilty."  It  remained  only 
to  pronounce  sentence.  Day  after  day  Lucy  loi- 
tered about  the  beautiful  old  place  with  absent, 
haunted  eyes.  Her  face  lost  its  childish  curve,  but 
took  on  a  spirituality  that  deepened  its  loveliness 
to  a  rare  beauty.  Then,  one  morning,  she  came  out 
dressed  for  departure,  an  exalted  light  in  her  face, 
as  of  a  soul  that  has  received  its  orders. 

She  had  sent  word  that  she  was  coming,  and  her 
own  coachman  was  waiting  for  her,  a  greeting  ready; 
but  Lucy,  usually  the  most  courteous  of  mistresses, 
seemed  to  forget  that  she  had  been  away. 

"Not  home  yet  —  to  Mr.  Battle's  office,"  she 
said  briefly. 

All  Lucy's  affairs  were  cared  for  in  the  office  of 
Stanley  Battle;  and  her  manner  of  business  dealings, 
the  sweetness  and  shyness  and  desire  not  to  give 
trouble,  and  the  sudden  compressions  of  her  lips, 


250  EVER  AFTER 

their  power  of  anxious  sternness,  were  an  endless 
amusement  to  an  observant  gentleman  who  had 
known  both  her  Grandfather  Cuyler  and  her  Great 
Aunt  Betty.  But  the  latent  glimmer  in  Mr.  Battle's 
eyes  was  quenched  this  morning  when  Lucy  had 
seated  herself  facing  him  in  the  private  office.  The 
usual  friendly  preliminaries  were  abruptly  cut  out. 

"Well,  Lucy?"  he  asked,  and  took  up  the  paper 
knife  that  always  served  to  engage  his  glance  when 
clients  had  difficult  things  to  say.  In  spite  of  her 
white  cheeks,  it  was  easier  for  her  to  speak  than  it 
often  had  been  about  some  trivial  matter.  What 
she  had  gone  through  had  swept  aside  the  little  fears 
and  hesitations. 

"Mr.  Battle,  I  have  made  a  discovery,"  she 
began  slowly.  "I  suppose  every  one  else  has  known 
it;  but  I  have  only  just  found  it  out.     I  am  a  miser." 

He  visibly  started,  then  drew  breath  to  protest, 
but  she  checked  him. 

"No.  Let  me  say  it  all,  for  it  is  not  easy.  Only 
you  have  got  to  understand.  A  miser  loves  money, 
hates  to  part  with  it,  saves  it  for  its  own  sake  —  not 
for  what  he  can  do  with  it.  And  that  is  what  I  have 
been.  It  is  a  mean  sin  —  one  of  the  meanest  on 
earth.  It  has  nearly  wrecked  my  married  life. 
Dana  didn't  want  the  money;  it  wasn't  that.  But, 
don't  you  know,  if  you  commit  a  mean  sin  over  and 
over  in  a  person's  sight,  he  is  so  hurt  that  he  can't 


EVER  AFTER  251 

stand  it?  Suppose  he  had  lied  to  me,  for  instance, 
every  day:  I  must  have  shrunk  from  him,  grown 
frightfully  sensitive,  don't  you  see?  Oh,  you  must 
understand,  you  must  follow  what  I  am  trying  to 
tell  you!"  She  wrung  her  hands  in  sudden  desper- 
ation, but  his  quiet,  "Yes,  Lucy,  I  understand," 
steadied  her  again. 

"I  didn't  dream  it.  I  thought  he  simply  wasn't 
very  wise  about  money.  And  he  isn't,  you  know" 
—  a  faint  smile  showed  for  an  instant  —  "but  the 
real  wrong  was  all  mine.  And,  at  last,  weeks  ago, 
he  —  went  away.  He  said  he  had  to  earn  his  own 
living.  I  had  —  humiliated  him.  He  said  he  would 
never  again  —  live  on  —  my  money."  The  pain 
of  the  words  caught  at  her  breath,  but  her  eyes  were 
clear  as  blue  flames. 

"You  had  to  know  everything,"  she  went  on, 
before  he  could  speak.  "What  I  have  gone  through 
since  then  —  never  mind  that.  But  here  is  where 
I  have  come  out.     It  all  lies  in,  'If  thy  right  hand 

offend    thee '     There    is    no    other    solution. 

I  can  not  trust  myself  to  be  different  —  to  stay 
different.  It  is  like  a  birthmark"  —  she  drew  her 
hand  across  her  breast  —  "a  part  of  me.  I  could 
always  be  made  generous  for  the  moment;  but  my 
imagination  never  stays  awake  for  the  next  case. 
So  I  am  going  to  make  over  the  bulk  of  my  property 
to  my  husband.     Don't  protest  —  don't  warn  and 


252  EVER  AFTER 

advise  me.  I  want  this  done  now,  in  secret,  without 
letting  Dana  know." 

Mr  Battle  needed  the  paper  knife  for  his  own  sake. 

"Might  not  some  compromise ?"  he  threw 

out. 

"Yes:  there  is  one  compromise.  I  was  coming 
to  that.  I  will  keep  the  Shore  house,  and  ten  thou- 
sand a  year,  which  you  are  to  turn  over  to  charity. 
Not  a  cent  of  that  is  to  go  through  my  hands  now. 
But  if  Dana  should  lose  all  the  rest  —  and  he  may, 
you  know"  —  again  that  rare  little  newborn  smile 
flashed  out  —  "we  can  retreat  there  and  have 
enough  to  live  on.  No  other  compromise.  I  have 
been  through  them  all;  I  began  that  way.  Will  you 
do  it,  right  now?'*  He  looked  into  the  white  glow 
of  her  face,  and  took  her  hand  between  his. 

"I  have  heard  nothing  but  good  of  your  husband, 
Lucy.  I  believe  that  he  is  an  honourable  and  up- 
right young  fellow;  I  could  see  that  he  was.  But 
have  you  thought  what  your  family  will  say?" 

There  was  no  aspect  that  Lucy  had  not  faced. 
"But  you  are  to  keep  it  absolutely  secret,"  she 
explained.  "They  are  not  to  find  out  until  it  is 
such  an  old  story,  it  doesn't  matter.  And  that 
won't  be  hard  —  there  is  so  little  real  estate.  Most 
of  it  will  be  just  a  matter  of  signatures  —  mine  now, 
and  Dana's  when  I  have  told  him."  Her  hand 
clung  to  his.     "You  can  make  it  hard  or  easy;  but 


EVER  AFTER  253 

it  is  going  to  happen.  I  am  keeping  the  greater 
thing,  Mr.  Battle." 

He  was  not  yet  won  over;  but  Lucy's  affairs  were 
in  her  own  control,  and  she  was  quietly  ready  to 
take  them  out  of  his  office  that  very  day  if  he  did  not 
carry  out  her  wishes.  At  last  he  literally  threw 
up  his  hands. 

"And  if  some  day  you  come  back  to  rate  me  for 

this "  he  said,  rising.    She  was  pulling  off  her 

gloves. 

"Let  me  sign  everything  right  now,"  she  said. 

The  horses  grew  very  restless  and  the  coachman 
very  hungry  before  Lucy  at  last  came  out. 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry,  Nichols.  I  forgot  you  were 
waiting,"  she  exclaimed,  and  there  was  a  light  in  her 
face,  a  beauty  of  peace,  that  even  a  hungry  coach- 
man might  not  miss. 

"It's  all  right,  Miss  Lucy,"  he  said,  reverting  to  the 
name  under  which  he  had  driven  her  for  twenty  years. 

It  seemed  to  Lucy  that  her  only  task  now  was  to 
wait.  Dana  would  come  or  send.  Since  she  had 
climbed  the  barrier  and  seen  things  with  his  eyes, 
she  was  as  sure  of  his  love  as  she  was  of  the  breath 
of  life  in  her  own  body.  Sooner  or  later,  it  would 
bring  him  back.  Her  spirit  ached  for  him,  strug- 
gling alone  in  his  hurt  pride,  but  she  knew  that  he 
must  succeed,  must  come  to  her  on  his  own  terms. 
Nothing  less  would  satisfy  him. 


254  EVER  AFTER 

There  were  begging  letters  in  Lucy's  mail  the  next 
morning.  She  started  worriedly  to  consider  them, 
then  tore  them  across  with  a  laugh. 

"That  is  Dana's  business  now!"  was  her  thought. 
A  Ways  and  Means  Committee  reminded  her  that 
a  very  important  meeting  was  to  be  held  that  morn- 
ing, and  urged  her  attendance;  Lucy  laughed  again, 
as  mischievously  as  the  girl  of  Sky  Farm,  and  ran 
upstairs  to  get  out  her  paints.  For  two  happy  hours 
she  laboured,  and  sent  invisible  messages  of  love  and 
hope  to  Dana,  and  sang  under  her  breath. 

"I'd  better  slave,"  she  warned  herself.  "I  may 
have  to  sell  my  works,  if  Dana  doesn't  allow  me 
enough."  Then  she  laughed  aloud,  and  put  out 
her  arms  to  him,  heedless  of  palette  and  brushes. 
"Darling  boy,  do  hurry,"  she  breathed. 

A  slow  step  and  a  rustle  on  the  stairs  brought 
a  craven  desire  to  hide.  She  had  not  told  any  one 
that  she  was  back,  but,  of  course,  the  family  knew 
it.  They  always  knew.  And  no  one  but  an  aunt 
could  mount  quite  so  like  an  approaching  doom. 
A  tiny  clanking  told  that,  at  least,  it  was  not  Aunt 
Margaret;  Mrs.  Stephen  Cuyler  had  no  use  for 
lorgnons  and  vanity  boxes 

"Well,  Lucy,  I  took  the  liberty  of  coming  up;" 
Mrs.  Mortimer  Cuyler  was  sufficiently  worldly 
to  make  a  cheerful  entrance,  even  if  her  errand 
might  be  uncheerful,  and  Lucy  was  grateful  for  the 


EVER  AFTER  255 

respite.  As  a  younger  woman,  Aunt  Frances  had 
been  big  and  plain,  but  with  maturity  and  white 
hair  had  come  an  unexpected  gift  of  beauty.  People 
stared  at  her  on  the  street,  jumped  to  serve  her  in 
cars;  and  though  she  bore  this  belated  flowering 
with  dignity,  as  a  large  woman  must,  her  enjoyment 
of  it  crept  out  in  little  gestures  and  turns  of  her  well- 
carried  head  and  in  the  gay  assurance  of  her  smile. 
Even  a  trying  errand  could  not  quite  dim  her 
consciousness  of  the  delightful  miracle. 

"I  haven't  forgotten  that  I  promised  to  call  you 
up,  Aunt  Frances,"  Lucy  said.  "I  am  only  just 
back." 

Mrs.  Cuyler  looked  at  the  sketch  and  was  pleas- 
antly appreciative,  then  went  on  to  family  news 
and  questions  about  the  country.  Lucy's  alarmed 
heart  was  quieting  down  when,  without  warning, 
the  attack  came. 

"Lucy,  I  have  just  heard  some  annoying  gossip. 
I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,  but  I  think  you  ought 
to  know  that  it  is  being  said."  To  emphasize  the 
unimportance  of  the  communication,  Mrs.  Cuyler 
produced  a  tiny  round  mirror  on  a  gold  handle  and 
looked  critically  at  one  fine  eye.  Lucy's  thought 
had  leaped  to  Mr.  Battle,  and  she  stiffened  in  a 
panic  of  dread  and  anger.  "It  is  about  Dana," 
Aunt  Frances  added. 

Lucy's  colour  came  back  in  a  relieved  rush  and 


256  EVER  AFTER 

she  sank  down  on  the  nearest  chair.  "Then  it 
isn't  true,"  she  said,  so  convincingly  that  Mrs.  Cuy- 
ler  felt  free  to  drop  the  mirror  and  settle  back. 

"I  was  sure  of  that.  It  was  too  absurd.  (Lucy, 
don't  you  like  these  shoes?  I  am  trying  a  new  man.) 
But  then,  who  is  the  child?" 

"The  child?" 

"The  little  boy  who  is  living  with  him.  People 
are  saying  —  ah,  one  can't  repeat  such  things  to 
you."  Aunt  Frances  again  had  recourse  to  the  little 
mirror.  "But  you  must  expect  gossip,  Lucy,  if  you 
two  stay  apart  so  long." 

Lucy's  downcast  face  told  nothing.  "I  want  to 
know  just  what  is  being  said,"  she  insisted. 

"Why,  it  came  through  a  friend  of  Laura's,  whose 
brother  sat  next  a  New  York  painter  at  a  dinner 
the  other  night.     Ludlow  —  was  that  the  name?" 

"Ludlam!"  Lucy  spoke  so  sharply  that  the  other 
paused  inquiringly.  "A  hateful  little  man.  He 
doesn't  like  Dana,  Aunt  Frances.     Please  go  on." 

"I  haven't  it  very  clearly.  The  tale  was  that 
something  unpleasant  had  happened  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  that,  as  a  result,  Dana  was  living  perma- 
nently in  New  York  with  this  boy." 

"And  people  suppose  that  it  is  his?"  Lucy  was 
aghast.  "Why,  it  is  some  music  pupil,  of  course. 
I  never  in  my  life  heard  anything  so  silly,  so  out- 
rageous.    That  Ludlam " 


EVER  AFTER  257 

"You  can't  scold  down  gossip,  my  dear  Lucy." 
Mrs.  Cuyler  glanced  at  her  watch  and  rose.  "I 
must  run  —  my  masseuse  comes  at  eleven.  I  wish 
you  would  try  her;  your  colour  isn't  what  it  was. 
Of  course,  I  don't  know  what  is  keeping  Dana  in 
New  York;  but,  if  he  can't  leave,  you  would  do  well 
to  go  there,  if  you  will  forgive  my  saying  it." 

Lucy  was  pulling  off  her  painting  apron. 

"I'll  take  the  one  o'clock,"  she  said,  breathless 
with  indignation.  "How  can  people  tell  such 
wicked  lies!    How  can  they!" 

Mrs.  Cuyler  had  a  delicate  shrug.  "If  you  will 
live  apart —  !"  she  might  have  said.  But  she  had 
struck  that  note  once,  and,  getting  no  explanation, 
would  not  try  again.  Lucy  was  not  sufficiently 
modern  to  be  attacked  with  plain  questions. 

Long  before  she  had  reached  New  York,  Lucy  had 
forgotten  the  cause  of  her  going.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  her  righteous  wrath  had  been  largely  the  soul's 
pretext  for  running  to  him.  It  was  there,  a  vague 
support,  to  serve  her  if  she  found  herself  unwelcome 
—  but  at  that  word  she  laughed,  and  her  fingers 
curled  tightly  into  her  palms.  She  planned  no  intro- 
ductory sentences.  It  would  be  just  an  opening 
door,  then  "Lucy!"  and  "Dana!"  and  a  close 
silence.  No  need  of  words.  She  was  glad  that  she 
was  making  the  first  move,  glad  of  everything,  even 
of  past  pain.     Since  her  interview  with  Mr.  Battle, 


258  EVER  AFTER 

her  spirit  had  felt  a  marvellous  lightness.  She 
seemed  to  be  skimming  over  the  awakening  country 
on  poised  wings. 

Providence,  New  London,  New  Haven,  New  York; 
a  dream  consciousness  of  streaming  human  crowds 
and  the  crash  of  streets;  then  a  sudden,  dreadful 
awakening  at  big,  new  portals,  clumsily  ornate. 
Lucy  stood  helpless  before  them,  terror  stricken, 
bodily  unable  to  move.  Dana  might  not  want  her. 
She  set  down  her  bag,  and  made  her  glove  an  excuse 
for  delay. 

"I  really  am  not  very  well  fitted  for  this  world," 
she  admitted,  with  a  gasp  for  breath.  Then  she 
cried  shame  on  herself  so  effectually  that,  three 
minutes  later,  she  was  at  Dana's  door. 

From  within  came  the  stodgy  beat  of  a  piano 
study,  broken  at  frequent  intervals  by  little  flights 
of  notes,  escaping  in  runs  and  trills.  Lucy's  knock 
was  a  bare  touch,  but  sharp  ears  heard  it,  and  the 
music  stopped.  The  door  was  opened  by  a  small, 
dark-skinned  boy,  whose  mournfully  brown  eyes,  by 
the  mere  act  of  being  lifted,  gave  a  misleading  effect 
of  pathos.     Lucy  shrank  back. 

"I  thought  this  was  Mr.  Malone's  apartment," 
she  apologized. 

"It  is,  but  he's  not  here."  The  boy  hesitated, 
then  opened  the  door  wider.  "Did  you  want 
music  lessons?"  he  suggested.     "Because  I  can  tell 


EVER  AFTER  259 

you  when  he  can  give  them  to  you.  I  know  all 
about  his  affairs." 

Lucy  smiled  a  little  and  came  in,  her  glance 
passing  quickly  about  the  room.  In  spite  of  Can- 
dace's  offerings,  it  seemed  to  her  touchingly  bare, 
and  her  fear  was  swallowed  up  in  mothering  com- 
passion. She  turned  to  the  uncurtained  windows, 
that  she  might  hide  her  face. 

"When  will  he  be  back?"  she  asked  obliviously 
of  Luis.     He  hesitated,  craftily  considering. 

"Mr.  Malone  is  a  most  re-markable  teacher," 
he  announced,  standing  before  her  with  hands  deep 
in  his  pockets.  "Everybody  wants  to  be  taught 
by  him;  he  has  only  a  little  time  left.  Two,  three 
evenings.  I  can  write  your  name  down;  and  then 
perhaps  he  will  take  you." 

The  curious  little  creature  was  beginning  to  en- 
gage her  attention.  "Are  you  one  of  his  pupils?" 
she  asked. 

The  boy's  chest  rose.  "Oh,  I  am  his  Luis,"  he 
threw  off. 

"His  — what?" 

"His  Luis.  I  have  come  from  San  Francisco  to 
live  with  him  and  become  a  great  musician." 

The  smile  was  stricken  out  of  the  pretty  lady's 
eyes.  She  looked  frightened,  hurt.  "Not  Luis 
Valdez?" 

The  name  drew  a  flash  of  anger.     "No!    I  do  not 


260  EVER  AFTER 

keep  the  name  of  those  pigs.  I  am  Mr.  Malone's 
Luis.  My  father  and  my  mother  will  lie  dead  in 
the  gutter,  and  I  will  jump  over  them  and  laugh!" 

His  scorn  of  the  Fifth  Commandment  passed 
unnoticed.  The  lady  had  sunk  down  on  the  couch, 
and  she  rocked  slightly,  as  though  the  pain  were 
sharp. 

"Ah,  and  he  sent  for  you;"  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands.  "With  all  this,  he  sent  for  you. 
Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear!" 

"No,  he  didn't  send  for  me,"  Luis  contradicted. 
"I  brought  myself.  I  am  like  that.  I  can  do  any- 
thing." She  seemed  so  glad  to  hear  it  that  he  told 
her  more  of  his  coming,  and  brought  out  a  treasured 
letter.  "That's  what  he  wrote  me.  You  can  read 
it  if  you  like." 

She  sat  so  long  over  the  letter  that  Luis  stood 
beside  her  to  help  her  out. 

"The  writing  is  very  plain,"  he  said.  "I  made 
it  all  out  by  myself.  That  is  'debt  of  gratitude' 
there.  It  is  this  way:  'Mr.  Bynner  was  as  good 
to  me  when  I  was  a  boy  as  he  has  been  to  you,  and 
I  owe  him  such  a  debt  of  gratitude  that  I  want  to 
pay  it  to  you.'    That  means " 

"Yes,  I  know  what  it  means,"  she  interposed 
gently,  her  face  still  shielded  by  her  hand. 

"He  is  the  best  man  in  the  world,"  Luis  stated. 
"I  would  let  myself  be  cut  in  pieces  for  him,  so." 


EVER  AFTER  261 

His  hand  crisscrossed  his  little  body.  "I  am  to 
live  with  him  until  she  drives  me  out." 

"Who  drives  you  out?" 

"His  cat  of  a  wife."  Luis  spat  out  the  words, 
then,  seeing  the  lady  recoil,  apologized.  "I  do  not 
call  her  that  to  him  —  at  least,  not  again.  I  thought 
he  would  kill  me."  He  shivered  with  an  awed 
memory  of  the  moment.  "He  stood  so  —  oh,  like 
a  lion!  Then  he  dropped  his  hand  and  he  said, 
'Luis!  If  you  speak  of  her  that  way  again,  I  will 
lick  the  life  out  of  you!'  Oh,  he  was  terrible." 
Luis  settled  down  beside  her  with  a  wriggle  of 
artistic  satisfaction.     "I  wish  you  had  seen  him." 

A  gentle,  gloved  hand  rested  on  his  shoulder. 
"Perhaps  she  will  let  you  stay,"  the  lady  suggested. 
Luis's  headshake  was  hopeless. 

"There  isn't  room.  I'd  be  under  her  feet  all  the 
time.     I  am  not  to  expect  it." 

"But  suppose  he  moved  to  a  nice  house,  where 
there  was  plenty  of  room?" 

Male  exasperation  took  him  to  his  feet:  from 
closed  eyes  to  swinging  foot,  his  little  body  expressed, 
"If  that  isn't  just  like  a  woman ! H    At  last  he  spoke : 

"How  —  in  —  thunder  —  do  you  think  we'd  pay 
for  it?  Aren't  we  working  day  and  night  to  pay 
for  this?" 

The  lady  laughed  aloud,  a  laugh  so  full  of  warmth 
and  merriment  that  Luis  found  his  scowl  of  offence 


262  EVER  AFTER 

hard  to  maintain.    He  turned  away,  loftily,  but 

she  called  him  back. 

"Luis !    When  will  Mr.  Malone  be  in ? " 

Again  he  evaded  the  question.     "Did  you  want 

evening  lessons?'* 

"I  want  all  the  evenings  he  can  give  me." 

Luis  scrambled  for  a  pad  and  pencil.     "Write  it 

down,"  he  said  eagerly. 

"But  I  would  rather  wait  to  see  him." 

At  last  it  came.     "Well  —  but  he  won't  be  home 

to-night." 
The  lady  looked  ready  to  cry.     "Oh,  Luis!    Why 

not  ?     Where  has  he  gone  ? ' ' 

"He    might    be,    of    course,"    Luis    amended. 

"I  couldn't  be  dead  certain.    But  he's  gone  to 

Boston." 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

Luis  dearly  loved  to  make  a  sensation;  and  he  had 
undeniably  made  one.  The  lady  half  rose,  as  though 
she  would  run  to  Boston  herself,  and  Luis  could 
not  tell  whether  she  was  very  glad  or  very  sorry. 
She  listened  to  his  account  of  a  letter  and 
a  sudden  departure  that  morning  with  flattering 
intensity. 

"Perhaps  you  know  about  the  letter,"  he  sug- 
gested, conscious  of  things  unspoken. 

She  shook  her  head;  she  did  not  seem  to  care 
about  that.  "He  will  be  back  to-night,  Luis,"  she 
said.     "  Do  you  mind  if  I  wait  for  him?  " 

Luis  was  enchanted;  he  seldom  had  so  devout  an 
audience.  The  lady  hung  on  his  words,  and  the 
glow  in  her  face  lifted  him  into  an  ecstasy  of  self- 
appreciation. 

"I  certainly  am  a  re-markable  boy,"  he  told 
himself  at  happy  intervals.  At  her  suggestion,  he 
showed  her  the  bare  little  kitchen  and  explained 
their  housekeeping  devices.  Then  he  exhibited 
their  sleeping  arrangements  and  made  up  his  bed 
on  the  rug,  politely  offering  to  let  her  try  its  delights. 

263 


264  EVER  AFTER 

But  when  she  asked  about  the  other  door,  he  sprang 
to  defend  it. 

"You  can't  go  in  there,"  he  exclaimed.  "That 
is  his  wife's  room.  No  one  else  can  go  in  it,  except 
just  the  lady  that  comes  to  sweep."  Lucy  turned 
away,  twisting  her  hands  together. 

"I  cannot  bear  it,"  she  said  softly. 

Luis,  fearing  that  she  was  going,  offered  to  play 
to  her,  and  worked  off  his  excitement  at  the  piano, 
not  dreaming  that  his  motionless  audience  did  not 
hear  one  note.  When  he  stopped,  his  eyes  were 
swimming  with  sleep. 

"I  will  play  more  for  you  another  day,"  he 
mumbled.  As  from  a  long  distance,  he  heard  the 
lady  urge  him  to  go  to  bed,  and  he  drowsily  obeyed, 
rousing  himself  for  a  moment  to  demand  admiration 
for  his  blue  pajamas.  Then  his  head  sank  into  the 
cushions  and  he  was  off. 

As  soon  as  he  was  asleep,  Lucy  rose  and  quietly 
opened  the  forbidden  door.  The  little  room  was 
like  a  shrine;  every  object  had  been  placed  there  in 
love  of  her.  At  first  the  effort  that  had  gone  into 
it  nearly  broke  her  heart.  Then  she  remembered 
what  she  had  done  for  love  of  him,  and  her  head 
lifted. 

"I  am  not  unworthy,"  she  said. 

For  several  days    past  Dana  had  felt  despair 


EVER  AFTER  265 

coming  nearer  and  nearer.  The  stand  he  had  taken 
was  right,  but  he  could  not  maintain  it.  He  was 
not  fitted  to  support  a  wife.  He  was  throwing  his 
talent  and  his  health  —  all  he  had  —  into  his 
offering,  yet  he  could  not  make  it  good  enough. 
The  vision  of  Lucy  in  those  bare  quarters,  badly 
served,  crowded  for  space,  brought  a  flush  of  shame 
and  helpless  anger.  If  he  had  married  some  hardy 
little  art  student,  who  could  hop  into  a  kimono  and 
get  breakfast  while  he  was  shaving,  they  might  have 
pulled  through  financially  and  even  had  energy 
over  for  other  things;  but  he  had  allied  himself  to 
a  House,  and  its  daughter  never  entered  a  kitchen 
but  as  a  shy,  stately  mistress  with  orders.  He  had 
no  regrets  for  the  little  art  student;  the  fine-lady 
quality  in  Lucy  had  drawn  him  just  as  the  Dana 
inheritance  had  spread  romance  for  Dan  Malone, 
his  father,  son  of  old  Brian  Malone  of  the  inspired 
fiddle.  But  he  began  to  see,  drearily,  that  he  who 
makes  such  an  alliance  has  to  lop  off  some  of 
his  natural  instincts:  he  may  not  inevitably  be 
the  head  of  his  household.  Sooner  or  later,  he 
must  come  down  from  his  first  hot  demand.  Per- 
haps, if  Lucy  would  live  —  in  her  own  fashion 
—  where  he  could  earn  his  living,  the  compro- 
mise might  be  tolerable.  Pride  winced,  of  course; 
but  they  had  hurt  each  other  so  horribly!  Some- 
times the  only  thing  in  life  that  seemed   to   mat- 


266  EVER  AFTER 

ter  was  to  win  her  back  and  so  ease  that  incessant 
ache. 

"What  if  I  went  to  her  to-day?"  The  thought 
had  been  in  his  mind  that  very  morning,  holding 
him  stock-still  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen,  a  pot  of 
oatmeal  in  one  hand.  Luis,  seated  expectantly 
before  a  bowl,  waited  in  silence,  a  hopeful  glimmer 
in  his  eyes.  Once,  during  an  abstracted  moment, 
Dana  had  carefully  emptied  the  scrambled  eggs 
into  the  sink,  and  Luis  lived  for  another  such  joyous 
event.  The  postman's  ring  spoiled  the  chances 
this  time,  and  the  boy  slipped  down  to  answer  it; 
a  little  praise  kept  Luis  at  a  high  pitch  of  usefulness. 
Dana,  startled  back  to  the  present,  was  serving  the 
oatmeal  and  glancing  at  his  watch  like  any  other 
punctual  business  man  when  the  letter  was  laid  be- 
fore him.  At  first  glance,  he  saw  only  that  it  was  not 
from  Lucy.   Then  the  printed  heading  caught  his  eye. 

"Oh,  by  jinks!"  he  breathed,  and  tore  open  the 
envelope. 

He  had  felt  a  calm  certainty  that  his  "  Children's 
Crusade  Suite  "  would  win  the  prize;  yet,  now  that 
it  had  come,  he  could  not  believe  his  senses.  Luis 
questioned  in  vain;  he  was  deaf  to  everything  but 
his  own  inner  shout  of  joy.  A  thousand  dollars 
might  not  mean  an  established  income,  but,  oh,  it 
meant  Lucy!  He  could  at  least  go  to  her  with  full 
hands  and  an  offering  of  glory.     He  dragged  out 


EVER  AFTER  267 

a  bag  and  made  a  faint  effort  to  pack  it  intelligently; 
then  gave  up  with  an  explosive,  "  Oh,  what's  the  use ! " 
and  banged  it  shut  on  whatever  it  might  contain. 
His  coffee  was  poured  out,  so  he  drank  it,  standing. 

"I  have  to  go  to  Boston,  Luis,"  he  explained. 
"Here's  a  dollar.  You  will  have  to  look  out  for 
yourself   as   best  you   can.     I'll   be  back   soon  — 

to-morrow "     He    was    leaving,    but    Luis's 

hand  on  his  coat  stopped  him  at  the  door. 

"Don't  you  want  your  hat?"  the  boy  demanded 
in  astonished  reproach.  Dana  laughed  and  admitted 
that  he  did,  tried  wildly  to  consider  if  other  practical 
matters  were  being  overlooked,  then  shrugged  off 
all  earthly  cares  and  ran  for  his  train. 

The  first  dismay  at  finding  Lucy  gone  was  wiped 
out  by  an  awed  joy.  For  she  had  taken  train  to 
New  York,  and  the  address  she  had  left  for  her 
letters  was  his.  Dana  marvelled  over  it,  at  first 
solemnly,  then  with  a  jubilant  leap  of  pulses.  She 
had  run  to  him,  even  as  he  had  run  to  her,  and  there 
would  be  no  need  of  words. 

His  outer  door  opened  on  darkness,  but  a  light 
from  the  inner  room  showed  where  she  was.  Dana 
went  quietly  past  the  sleeping  Luis  and  pushed 
back  the  door.  Lucy,  hearing  him,  had  started  to 
her  feet,  but  she  stood  motionless  until  their  eyes 
met.  Then  it  was  all  as  she  had  foreseen  —  "Lucy !" 
and  "Dana!"  and  a  close  silence. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

"I  can't  go  down  to  the  office.  I  can't  do  it!" 
Dana  laughed,  in  the  tone  of  one  who,  nevertheless, 
is  about  to  do  the  impossible.  He  sat  on  the  side 
of  the  bed,  and  the  coffee  and  toast  he  had  brought 
in  cooled  forgotten  on  the  little  oval  table.  Lucy's 
morning  face  had  a  rose-petal  flush  between  her 
brown  braids  and  her  eyes  were  blue  as  cornflowers; 
but  her  beauty  had  gone  deeper  than  these  things, 
and  Dana,  feeling  it,  had  to  bend  his  head  to  her 
hands  to  express  his  fealty.  He  wanted  to  go  down 
on  his  knees  to  her,  but,  being  of  his  generation,  he 
could  only  laugh  at  himself  and  wait  on  her  with 
brimming  zeal. 

"Don't  go,"  she  urged,  knowing  that  he  would. 

"My  beloved,  I  don't  believe  I  even  telephoned 
them  yesterday.  If  I  did,  I  have  no  recollection  of 
it.  I  simply  lit  out."  They  laughed  and  clung  to 
each  other  for  the  sake  of  that  simultaneous  flight. 
"But  you  will  come  down  and  lunch  with  me? 
Without  fail?" 

"Without  fail." 

"It  is  all  right  about  Luis.     Father  Grant  will 

268 


EVER  AFTER  269 

take  him  for  a  few  days,  anyway,  till  we  come  to" 
—  he  hesitated,  and  the  light  was  a  little  dimmed  — 
"practical  arrangements,"  he  concluded  manfully. 
"We  have  a  lot  to  talk  over,  Lucy." 

"Not  yet;  not  to-day,"  she  begged.  "Just  love 
me,  Dana." 

"I'll  'just  love  you*  to  the  end  of  my  days." 
He  dragged  himself  to  his  feet.  "I  must  go.  Don't 
mind  if  Luis  looks  knives  and  daggers  at  you;  he'll 
come  round." 

Lucy  had  a  tiny  smile  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth. 
"We  seem  to  have  acquired  our  little  Frederick," 
she  murmured.     Dana  sat  down  again. 

Five  minutes  later,  he  departed  at  a  run,  calling 
a  word  of  cheer  to  Luis  as  he  passed.  Luis  made 
no  answer.  His  scowling  little  face  was  bent  over 
a  bundle  containing  his  few  earthly  possessions. 
When  Lucy  came  out,  determined  on  reconciliation, 
he  had  gone. 

The  "lady  who  comes  in  to  sweep"  had  been  sent 
for  and  bribed  to  stay  by  the  day,  so  there  was 
nothing  for  Lucy  to  do.  Spring  called  to  her  at 
the  open  windows.  Even  the  breath  of  the  city 
had  an  April  sweetness.  She  went  down  into  the 
streets  and  walked  aimlessly  in  a  daze  of  happiness. 
Once  she  found  herself  under  the  elevated,  and  the 
splashes  of  sunlight  falling  through  its  barred  shade 
transformed  it  into  a  gigantic  semblance  of  the  grape 


270  EVER  AFTER 

arbour  of  the  Shore  garden,  and  so  made  her  heart 
thud  with  delight.  The  very  signs  of  the  shops 
struck  notes  of  beauty  and  romance.  "Black, 
Starr  and  Frost"!  —  who  could  pass  that  magic 
combination  without  the  thrill  of  keen  nights? 
"C.  Hymes"  over  an  obscure  door  said  "Chimes" 
to  Lucy,  and  the  street  rang  with  the  lovely  word. 
A  wet  steel  rail,  seen  in  a  side  glimpse,  took  on  a 
piercing  blue,  as  entrancing  as  the  sudden  note  of  a 
thrush.  Puffs  of  white  steam,  curling  with  luminous 
intensity  into  bright  sky,  seemed  to  carry  her  spirit 
up  with  them  like  a  white  offering.  The  swinging 
doors  of  the  cathedral  suggested  that  she  must  thank 
some  one's  God  for  all  this,  so  she  stepped  into  its 
sudden,  rich  coolness,  and,  finding  a  seat  behind 
a  pillar,  went  down  on  her  knees,  burying  her  face 
in  her  arms.     Again  there  was  no  need  of  words. 

It  was  Saturday,  and  Dana  had  so  arranged  his 
work  that  he  need  not  go  back  to  his  office  that 
afternoon. 

"What  shall  I  do  with  you?"  he  asked,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair,  the  better  to  look  at  her.  They 
had  lunched  gorgeously  and  conspicuously,  yearning 
to  be  seen  together  by  old  friends,  yet  nervous  of 
possible  questions,  since  the  future  was  still  undis- 
cussed. They  had  talked  of  everything  else  —  of 
Dana's  prize  and  of  the  hope  that  had  come  and 
gone,  of  "Mary  Alone,"  and  Ludlam  and  Candace 


EVER  AFTER  271 

and  of  all  the  love  and  misery  of  those  interminable 
weeks:  only  the  blighting  theme  of  money  had 
been  avoided.  Lucy  debated  his  question,  but, 
meeting  his  eyes,  forgot  to  answer  it.  "What 
will  you  have  done  with  you,  Miss  Lucy?"  he 
repeated. 

Her  glance  turned  to  the  open  windows.  ""Hire 
a  motor  and  take  me  out  of  town,"  she  commanded, 
and  so  very  nearly  got  herself  embraced  in  a  public 
cafe.  "My  dear,'*  she  breathed,  with  a  gasp  for 
the  closeness  of  her  escape.  He  laughed  and  took 
her  coat  from  the  waiter.  As  he  held  it,  his  glance, 
passing  over  intervening  tables,  met  Ludlam's  pale 
gaze,  fixed  on  them  with  an  intensity  that  was 
almost  dismayed.  Dana  nodded  blithely,  then 
muttered  a  disgusted : 

"Oh,  confound  it!" 

"What?"  she  asked. 

He  did  not  explain  until  they  were  outside. 
"I  saw  a  man  in  there  that  I  intended  to  cut;  and 
I  forgot  all  about  it." 

Lucy  was  amused.  "I  will  wait  while  you  go  back 
and  do  it,"  she  suggested;  then  added  a  quick,  "Oh — 
was  it  Mr.  Ludlam?"  Dana  nodded.  "I  shall  not 
forget  to  cut  him,"  she  promised,  with  early  Victo- 
rian stateliness. 

They  sped  home  for  wraps  and  veils,  and  a  car  was 
at  the  door  by  the  time  they  were  ready.    Not  till 


272  EVER  AFTER 

they  had  left  the  city  far  behind  them  did  Dana 
remember  Luis. 

"I  meant  to  see  him  or  call  him  up,"  he  explained. 
"Poor  little  chap,  his  nose  is  rather  out  of  joint." 

"We  will  see  him  to-morrow,"  she  comforted  him. 

They  came  home  late  that  night,  drowsy,  sun- 
burned, as  happy  as  two  people  may  be  with  a 
momentous  topic  unbroached  between  them.  Once 
or  twice  Lucy  had  tried  to  prepare  Dana  for  what 
she  had  done,  to  edge  up  to  the  mighty  secret,  but 
courage  dismally  failed  her.  The  pure  justice  of 
her  sentence  and  her  exaltation  in  carrying  it  out 
had  lifted  her  for  the  time  being  into  a  simpler 
world,  where  truth  and  righteousness  held  unques- 
tioned sway;  she  had  overlooked  the  scruples  and 
sensitivenesses  that  must  complicate  Dana's  accept- 
ance of  her  act.  The  thought  that  she  might  have 
to  fight  him  as  she  had  fought  herself  and  Mr.  Battle 
appalled  her.  She  even  caught  herself  in  a  craven 
desire  to  fall  very  ill,  so  that  Dana  might  be  too 
concerned  about  her  to  protest  at  anything;  and,  for 
shame's  sake,  made  an  attempt  at  the  topic.  They 
were  sitting  over  a  late  breakfast  in  Sunday  morning 
laziness,  glancing  through  the  letters  they  had  been 
too  sleepy  to  open  the  night  before.  She  handed 
three  sheets  across  to  him. 

"What  would  you  do  with  those?"  she  asked. 

They  were  all  appeals  for  money.     One  of  them 


EVER  AFTER  273 

Dana  threw  aside  with  a  laugh;  a  second  with  sounds 
of  contempt;  the  third  he  read  with  kindling  interest. 

"Good  letter,"  he  observed.  "It  sounds  all 
right." 

"But  what  would  you  do?" 

"Why,  look  it  up,  of  course.  Find  out  if  the  need 
of  an  infirmary  is  as  bad  as  they  say,  and  how  these 
people  stand.  If  it  turned  out  as  good  as  it  sounds, 
I'd  give  —  let  me  see:  they  are  trying  to  raise  fifty 
thousand  dollars.  Well,  I'd  give  a  thousand  now, 
and  perhaps  more  later." 

"And  you  would  enjoy  doing  it,"  said  Lucy. 

"Oh,  yes.  I'd  like  meeting  those  men  and  hearing 
what  they  had  to  say.     I  like  human  dealings." 

"A  rich  man  should,"  she  said  bravely.  "You 
would  be  a  better  person  than  I  to  have  money, 
Dana."  The  words  had  an  intention  that  he  could 
not  ignore:  they  said,  "You  were  right,"  and  her 
steady  eyes  repeated  the  message.  The  hideous 
charge  on  which  they  had  parted  lay  uncovered 
before  Dana's  shamed  sight.  He  went  round  to  her 
and  hid  his  face  in  her  shoulder. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  whispered.  "I'm  sorry  — 
sorry " 

"No:  I  am  glad.     I  had  to  learn.     Dana " 


The  telephone  came  to  her  rescue.  Sternest 
resolution  oould  not  go  on  with  that  bell  buzzing 
in  the  corner.     Lucy  dropped  back  in  her  chair, 


274  EVER  AFTER 

weak  with  unrighteous  relief.  She  heard  Dana's, 
1 '  Oh,  Father  Grant :  good  morning !  How  are  you  ? ' ' 
and  had  time  for  a  silent  rhapsody  over  the  beloved, 
inborn  cordiality  with  which  he  met  all  the  world 
before  the  tiny,  metallic  echo  that  was  the  priest's 
voice  reached  her  understanding. 

"When  is  the  boy  coming  over?"  he  was  saying. 

They  talked  at  cross  purposes,  puzzling  each  other; 
then  Dana  broke  out  with  a  startled : 

"Great  Scott!  You  don't  mean  that  he  hasn't 
turned  up?     Why,  he  left  here  yesterday  morning!" 

Luis  had  not  turned  up;  and  he  had  been  gone 
twenty-four  hours.  Lucy  could  tell  nothing,  and 
Dana  hurried  downstairs  to  make  inquiries.  An 
elevator  boy  remembered  Luis's  departure  with  his 
bundle,  and  had  noticed  that  he  turned  east  when 
he  left  the  building.  Father  Grant  lived  to  the 
west,  but  the  boy  was  certain.  He  had  watched 
because  Luis  seemed  to  be  in  a  curious  state  of  mind, 
and  had  met  their  usual  opening  for  repartee  with 
a  silent  snarl,  baring  his  teeth  like  a  small  tiger. 
He  had  walked  away  slowly,  yet  with  purpose:  he 
seemed  to  know  where  he  was  going. 

As  a  matter  of  form,  Dana  called  up  police  and 
hospitals,  but  he  knew  very  well  that  there  had  been 
no  accident.  Luis  had  a  dollar  in  his  pocket,  rage 
in  his  heart,  and  he  had  run  away. 

"I  ought  to  have  given  more  time  to  him,"  Dana 


EVER  AFTER  275 

reproached  himself.  "I  could  have  straightened 
him  out  in  ten  minutes;  but  I  was  so  wrapped  up  in 
you,  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  else.  And,  of 
course,  he  saw  it." 

Lucy  shivered.  "It  is  so  horrible  to  be  jealous!" 
He  turned  to  her  in  surprise. 

"What  do  you  know  about  it,  Lucy  Cuyler?" 
he  demanded.  She  smiled,  but  would  not  explain. 
The  time  had  gone  by  forever  when  his  love  for 
California  could  go  through  her  like  a  knife. 

They  gave  the  police  a  description  of  Luis  and  set 
out  to  search  the  city  streets.  The  morning  was 
fruitless,  but,  while  they  were  lunching,  a  policeman 
appeared  with  Luis's  bundle.  It  had  been  found 
hidden  in  the  bushes  by  a  Park  lake,  where  the  boy 
had  evidently  slept;  and  with  it  were  his  cap,  shoes, 
and  stockings.  A  remark  about  having  the  lake 
examined  made  Lucy  turn  white,  but  Dana  refused 
to  be  alarmed. 

"He  is  taking  care  of  himself,  you  can  bet  on 
that,"  he  assured  her.  "I  know  him."  Lucy  still 
saw  dreadful  pictures  of  a  little  body  drifting,  face 
down. 

"Oh,  he  must  be  found,"  she  exclaimed.     "We 

will  give  five  hundred  dollars,  gladly "     Then 

she  broke  off  with  a  gasp;  for  she  had  suddenly 
remembered  that  the  five  hundred  dollars  she  had 
with  her  was  all  the  money  she  possessed  in  the 


276  EVER  AFTER 

world.  Dana,  coming  back  from  final  words  with 
the  officer,  found  her  looking  more  frightened 
than  ever. 

"He's  all  right,  darling,"  he  comforted  her. 
"I  give  you  my  word,  he's  better  fitted  to  take  care 
of  himself  than  I  am." 

"I  —  hope  so.  O  Dana,  I  wish  we  could  find 
him  ourselves!" 

"You're  such  a  little  brick,"  he  murmured. 

They  took  a  taxicab  for  the  afternoon,  and  went 
up  and  down  the  city  till  they  were  worn  out.  Five 
o'clock  found  them  sitting,  limp  and  speechless,  in 
a  Park  restaurant  with  a  pot  of  tea  between  them. 
After  a  reviving  cup,  Dana  went  to  call  up  head- 
quarters for  news.  Lucy  sat,  vacant  with  weariness, 
staring  at  the  bizarre  women  and  sleek,  thick-necked 
men  that  motors  and  carriages  kept  depositing  at 
the  foot  of  the  broad  steps. 

She  thought  she  must  have  fallen  asleep,  for 
suddenly  she  was  listening  to  "Mary  Alone." 
She  started,  shaking  her  head  to  clear  it  of  dreams; 
but  the  strain  persisted,  a  mournful  piping  — 
"Mary  Alone"  done  into  another  language.  Others 
were  turning  to  some  sight  on  the  gravel  beneath, 
and  their  amusement  checked  the  waiters,  who  had 
started  forward  to  stop  the  intrusion.  Lucy  rose 
in  time  to  see  a  small  son  of  Spain,  bareheaded  and 
barefooted,  a  musical  pipe  pressed  to  his  cheek,  old- 


EVER  AFTER  277 

world  eyes  lifted  as  though  to  the  gods,  playing 
money  out  of  the  nearest  pockets  with  an  appalling 
surety.  She  started  forward,  but  others,  rising, 
blocked  her  path. 

"Lui*!"  she  called,  but  too  faintly  to  be  noticed. 

The  child  stood  with  the  assurance  of  acknowl- 
edged genius,  his  perfect  melancholy  untouched  by 
the  laughter  in  the  faces  above  him.  He  was  enjoy- 
ing himself  superbly;  and  not  by  the  flicker  of  an 
eyelash  did  he  betray  consciousness  of  the  silver 
dropping  at  his  feet.  Luis  was  destined  to  un- 
numbered successes  with  women,  and  a  keen  prophet 
might  have  seen  the  signs  then  in  the  laughing 
attention  bent  on  him;  but  never  would  his  charm 
fly  home  more  swiftly  and  certainly  than  it  did  now 
to  his  first  real  conquest.  Lucy  had  appreciated 
his  devotion  to  Dana,  had  determined  to  overcome 
her  instinctive  class  shrinking  from  the  ragamuffin 
in  him  and  to  love  him  for  Dana's  sake;  and  suddenly 
here  she  was,  filled  with  warm  laughter  over  him  and 
a  mighty,  mothering  desire  to  shake  him  well.  She 
pressed  forward,  losing  sight  of  him  for  the  moment. 
When  she  reached  the  steps,  a  Park  policeman  held 
a  struggling,  furious  Luis  by  the  shoulder. 

"I  guess  you're  the  kid  we're  looking  for,"  he  was 
saying  with  genial  satisfaction.  "Here,  drop  that 
wildcat  business,  sonny,  or  I'll " 

"Luis!"  Lucy  ran  down  to  him,  heedless  of  curious 


278  EVER  AFTER 

eyes.  "Luis,  dear!"  The  voice  meant  rescue,  and 
Luis's  struggles  ceased.  "My  dear  little  boy,  we 
have  been  looking  for  you  all  day  long!"  Her  arm 
was  about  him,  her  eyes  spoke  understanding  and 
tenderness.  Luis's  sullen  gaze  fell  —  and  encoun- 
tered the  silver.  In  an  instant,  he  had  it  pocketed 
with  a  deftness  that  brought  another  laugh  from 
the  tables. 

Dana,  coming  out,  heard  the  tale,  and  hastened 
to  get  his  family  away  from  the  intensely  interested 
spectators.  The  policeman  showed  reluctance  at 
parting  from  Luis. 

"It  was  me  found  him,"  he  insisted. 

"Oh,  yes.  You  may  come  for  the  reward  at  any 
time,"  said  Lucy  serenely.  In  the  cab,  her  arm 
slipped  about  the  silent  Luis. 

"He's  a  tired  boy,  Dana,"  she  said.  "Don't 
scold  him  to-night.     He  must  be  so  hungry." 

Dana's  hand,  having  brushed  Luis's  pocket,  was 
unceremoniously  thrust  in,  and  brought  out  a  hand- 
ful of  silver  and  copper. 

"H'm  —  hungry!"  he  observed.  "Luis,  I  can 
see  that  bringing  you  up  isn't  going  to  be  unmixed 
joy.  You  go  into  a  good,  stiff  school  next  fall, 
young  man." 

"But  he  will  spend  the  summer  with  us,"  said 
Lucy. 

Luis  gave  her  a  swift,  cool  glance.     There  was 


EVER  AFTER  279 

a  patronizing  acceptance  in  it,  as  though  jealousy  had 
realized  that  here  were  scarcely  grounds  for  any  real 
alarm.  His  head  slipped  an  inch  nearer  her  shoulder, 
in  token  that  he  was  willing  to  let  her  take  his  side, 
and  Lucy,  curiously  humble  and  pleased,  had 
thoughts  of  ponies  and  tutors  for  this  little  son  of 
the  streets. 

The  reward  was  paid  that  evening:  five  hundred 
dollars  in  bills.  Lucy  was  so  very  grave  afterward 
that  Dana  was  troubled. 

"You  needn't  have  paid  it,"  he  told  her.  "He 
didn't  really  find  him;  we  were  right  there.  I  ought 
to  have  said  so  at  the  time." 

"No:  I  am  glad  it  happened,"  was  the  puzzling 
answer,  and  suddenly  Lucy  laughed  aloud,  a  breath- 
less, astonished  laugh  that  ended  against  his  shoulder. 
"0  Dana,  life  is  so  funny,"  she  stammered. 

"So  Candy  says,"  was  the  sober  answer. 

More  than  once,  in  the  days  that  followed,  Dana 
stopped  short  to  demand: 

"Lucy,  what  is  it?  What  has  happened?" 
But  she  would  only  laugh  and  slip  away  from 
the  question.  There  was  some  bubbling  well  of 
spirits  just  under  the  surface.  When  Dana  made 
a  serious  business  of  hurrying  off  to  his  office,  her 
eyes  mocked  him:  when  he  came  home  tired  and 
fagged,  her  mothering  tenderness  had  the  same 
mischievous  gleam.     He  had  seen  her  as  merry  on 


280  EVER  AFTER 

the  hills  of  Sky  Farm,  but  never  as  alluringly  wicked, 
and  he  fell  in  love  with  her  "all  over  again  from  the 
beginning,"  as  he  expressed  it.  In  some  mysterious 
way  she  had  broken  the  mighty  grip  that  held  her, 
and  found  freedom.  She  would  not  talk  of  money. 
In  fact,  she  would  not  do  anything  that  she  ought 
to,  and  she  enjoyed  her  own  defiance  so  exquisitely 
that  he  could  only  follow  her  lead  in  devout  acqui- 
escence. 

On  the  fifth  morning,  as  he  was  putting  together 
some  papers,  the  frown  of  the  punctual  business  man 
on  his  forehead,  she  suddenly  appeared  before  him 
with  an  air  of  scared  purpose.  She  wore  an  absurd 
little  dressing  sack  with  fluttering  lace  for  sleeves, 
and  her  brown  braids  lay  on  her  shoulders.  Her 
hands  were  clasped  behind  her  back. 

"Dana!" 

"Yes,  dear?"  Mortal  man  could  not  have  shown 
himself  more  approachable,  yet  her  colour  rose  and 
fell,  and,  in  spite  of  her  amused  eyes,  she  visibly 
gasped. 

"It's  only  —  Dana,  dear  — I  —  haven't  any  money. 
Could  you  let  me  have  some?  " 

Could  he!  His  hand  plunged  into  a  well-filled 
pocket  and  offered  her  its  entire  contents.  She 
would  have  taken  a  modest  bill,  but  he  pressed  it 
all  into  her  hands  and  closed  them  over  it. 

"You'll  need  it,  dearest,"  he  urged. 


EVER  AFTER  281 

Lucy  looked  down  at  her  hands,  still  held  closely 
between  his,  as  though  making  a  discovery.  He 
waited  till  it  came  in  words. 

"Dana  —  I  like  taking  it  from  you." 

"God  knows  how  I  like  giving  it  to  you!"  Then 
a  clock  struck,  and  he  had  to  go. 

Lucy  painted  every  morning  in  her  bedroom, 
where  the  light  was  better  than  in  the  sunny  main 
room.  She  was  developing  from  memory  sketches 
made  in  the  Shore  garden,  and  the  plain  little  room, 
fitted  out  so  laboriously  in  love  of  her,  seemed  to 
weave  a  spell  about  her,  so  that  she  worked  with 
enchanted  brushes  on  fairy  canvas,  and  held  scenes 
of  magic  beauty  under  her  eyelids.  So  deep  was 
the  glamour  that  surrounded  her,  that  morning, 
that  she  did  not  notice  the  opening  of  the  door 
behind  her,  and  worked  on  in  happy  unconsciousness 
of  a  spectator  on  the  threshold.  Fifteen  minutes 
later  a  voice  made  her  jump. 

"I'd  leave  it  there,"  it  said.  "You'll  overdo  it 
if  you  go  on." 

"Candy!"  Lucy  flew  to  her,  but  could  get  little 
personal  attention;  Candace  was  intent  on  the 
sketch.  She  looked  at  it  from  so  many  angles 
that  Lucy  grew  worried.  "I  haven't  had  any  time 
to  work  this  winter,"  she  apologized. 

At  last  Candy  turned  to  her. 

"What  has  happened  to  you?"  she  demanded. 


282  EVER  AFTER 

"You've  got  it  at  last  —  the  thing  I've  been  preach- 
ing at  you  all  these  years  in  vain.  You've  let  go. 
And  I  didn't  think  you  could.     What  taught  you?" 

"Life,  I  suppose,"  said  Lucy,  with  a  sigh  for  the 
price  she  had  paid. 

"Go  on  living,  then.  That's  painting.  Come 
and  work  with  me  while  you  are  in  town."  Then 
Candace  returned  to  personal  matters,  a  smile  curl- 
ing the  corners  of  her  sleepy  little  eyes.  "Well?" 
she  queried. 

"All  well,  thank  you;"  Lucy  smiled  and  flushed. 

"Had  a  pretty  bad  time?" 

"It  is  over  now,  Candy.     Over  for  ever  and  ever." 

"H'm.  It  is  if  you  have  learned  to  laugh;  not 
otherwise."  Candace  turned  back  to  the  main  room 
and  settled  down  with  an  air  of  having  come  on 
business.  "Lucy,  how  about  Sky  Farm?  I  have 
gathered  an  idea  that  you  thought  that  rather  a 
failure  —  the  cabin  part  of  it." 

Lucy  checked  an  impulsive,  "Oh,  no!"  and  sat 
down  to  consider.  "Yes,  on  the  whole,  I  did," 
she  admitted. 

"Take  them  one  by  one." 

"Well:  Mr.  Ludlam.  He  certainly  was  not 
worthy  of  being  helped.     He  used  and  despised  it." 

"I  grant  you  Ludlam." 

"Adamovitch.  You  remember  how  he  ran  away 
without  a  word  of  good-bye  or  appreciation?" 


EVER  AFTER  283 

"Yes;  but  he  came  to  me  last  winter  and  apolo- 
gized. He  was  desperate  with  homesickness,  and 
he  went  back  to  Russia.  He  told  me  that  the  place 
saved  him:  he  has  had  a  successful  season.  Palmer 
Jacks  did  work  there  that  has  set  him  solidly  on  his 
feet  —  oh,  atrocious  work,  I  admit,  but  he  sells  it 
and  he's  happy  —  I  think  he  is  even  looking  for  a 
lady  to  marry  him;"  Candace's  hardy  brown  face 
was  all  curled  up  in  smiling  lines.  "And  though 
he  is  still  poor  enough,  he  won't  take  the  cabin  for 
this  year.  Give  it  to  some  other  poor  devil,  he 
says.     Not  much  harm  done  there?  " 

"No,"  Lucy  admitted. 

"Some  one  will  always  have  to  look  out  for  little 
Willing:  it  might  as  well  be  me  as  any  one  else. 
You  can't  say  he  isn't  grateful.  The  Dabneys  want 
me  to  build  a  cottage  there  and  rent  it  to  them;  they 
must  feel  that  they  got  something.  As  for  Dana 
Malone  —  I  don't  think  his  cabin  was  wasted,  little 
Lucy!" 

A  vision  of  what  her  life  would  have  been  if 
Dana's  cabin  had  not  been  built  brought  Lucy 
to  Candace's  side.  "O  Candy,  if  we  hadn't!"  she 
cried. 

"I  thought  as  much.  Well,  now,  what  is  your 
wish?  Shall  I  go  on  lending  the  cabins?  It  isn't 
a  brilliant  record,  I  admit.  I  could  rent  them  and 
pay  you  a  good  interest  on  the  investment." 


284  EVER  AFTER 

Lucy  winced.  "Please  don't.  I  want  you  to  go 
on  lending  them,  of  course." 

"Very  well.  I  have  several  candidates  in  mind." 
Candace  rose.  "I  want  to  hear  about  your  plans, 
but  I  mustn't  stop  now.  When  are  you  two  children 
coming  to  dine  with  me?" 

Lucy's  pause  marked  the  taking  of  a  mighty 
resolution. 

"To-morrow  night,"  she  said,  and  so  stood  com- 
mitted to  telling  Dana  that  night  the  appalling 
secret  that  he  was  a  rich  man. 

He  made  it  harder  for  her  by  coming  home  in  a 
blaze  of  excitement  over  his  "  Children's  Crusade." 
He  had  had  an  interview  with  the  leader  of  the 
orchestra  that  was  to  play  it,  and  the  appreciation 
shown  him  had  started  the  strings  and  brasses 
echoing  in  his  ears.  After  dinner,  he  had  to  play 
bits  of  it  to  her,  to  illustrate  the  great  man's  praises. 
He  seemed  wholly  absorbed  in  his  subject,  and  yet 
suddenly  he  swung  round  and  caught  her  in  his  arms 
as  she  stood  beside  him. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  demanded.  "Have 
you  got  to  scold  me  for  something  —  is  that  it? 
Or  have  you  committed  some  awful  crime  yourself ? 
Out  with  it!"  She  drew  a  deep  breath  of  resolution; 
then  let  it  out  again. 

"It  is  going  to  be  so  hard  to  make  you  under- 
stand," she  faltered. 


EVER  AFTER  285 

"No,  dear,  it  isn't."  He  had  turned  grave,  and 
his  arms  released  her.  "Say  it  slowly,  just  as  you 
mean  it,  and  I  will  understand.  Of  course,  it  is 
this  everlasting  money  business,"  he  added.  "I 
have  things  to  say  about  it,  too." 

She  stood  hesitating,  then,  with  a  desperate 
gesture,  turned  to  a  portfolio  on  the  table  and  took 
out  a  letter. 

"I  wrote  it,  in  case  —  don't  be  angry  —  don't 
fight  me !     Oh,  if  you  can  only  understand ! " 

She  thrust  the  letter  into  his  hands  and  ran  into 
her  own  room,  closing  the  door.  Dana  sat  down 
under  the  light,  and,  breaking  the  envelope,  looked 
about  as  though  dimly  aware  that  all  his  world 
would  bear  a  different  aspect  when  he  had  finished 
reading. 

Dearest:  Please  read  this  with  all  your  heart  and  soul,  so 
that  you  will  understand.  When  I  was  up  at  the  Shore  house  I 
saw  things  as  if  I  had  been  lifted  miles  above  the  earth,  and  were 
looking  down  on  a  poor  little  Lucy  and  Dana  struggling  below. 
Not  all  at  once.  For  weeks  I  saw  only  the  different  sides.  I 
fought  it  all  out,  inch  by  inch,  and  you  won;  and  then  I  tried  to 
think  what  we  could  do.  I  made  terms  and  treaties  by  the 
hundred,  but  they  were  never  right;  there  was  always  room  for 
more  trouble.  And,  then  one  night — O  Dana,  such  a  marvellous 
night!  I  went  straight  up  and  sat  among  the  gods,  and  I  saw 
this  case  of  Dana  and  Lucy  as  clearly  and  inexorably  as  if  it 
had  been  written  on  stone  tablets.  My  right  hand  had  offended, 
and  it  would  offend  again.     Love,  I  cut  it  off. 

I  never  was  fitted  to  be  a  rich  woman.    I  didn't  know  there 


286  EVER  AFTER 

was  such  freedom,  such  lightness,  in  the  world.  It  has  even  got 
into  my  painting  —  Candy  will  tell  you.  I  have  put  my  burden 
on  you;  but  you  will  carry  it  happily  and  use  it  well,  and  make 
another  thing  of  our  lives.  Come  home  and  be  the  head  of  your 
house.  It  is  all  done.  You  are  absolute  master  of  everything 
and  I  am  only  your  wife,  who  loves  you. 

At  first  Dana  could  see  only  his  own  pained  pro- 
test. The  thing  was  impossible,  monstrous :  the  red 
of  pure  shame  rushed  to  his  face.  He  started  up  to 
tell  her  so,  then,  remembering  her  imploring,  "Don't 
fight  me!"  he  conceded  to  her  a  second  reading  of 
the  letter.  A  slow  third  reading  followed.  Its 
living  truth  caught  and  held  him.  "I  have  put  my 
burden  on  you":  there  was  the  change  in  her  made 
clear  —  the  change  that  had  showed  in  every  move- 
ment of  her  body  and  spirit.  She  had  broken  from 
her  inheritance.  She  was  right:  he  would  carry  the 
burden  better. 

"But  how  can  I?"  burst  from  him. 

Very  slowly,  with  many  turnings  back,  the  letter 
lifted  him  up  to  where  Lucy  had  risen,  and  he  saw 
with  new  vision  the  case  of  Dana  and  Lucy.  He 
had  failed  to  keep  his  marriage  sweet  and  whole, 
and  this  was  his  punishment.  Instead  of  meeting 
evil  strongly  with  love  and  truth,  he  had  suffered 
it  in  helpless  passivity,  as  though  the  outcome  were 
no  affair  of  his.  He  had  been  a  sensitive  boy, 
brooding  over  a  grievance,  where  life  had  called  for 


EVER  AFTER  287 

a  thinking  man.  Now  he  must  stand  by  and  see 
Lucy  come  shining  out  of  that  dark  failure  and  go 
up  past  him  to  heights  of  serene  nobility.  All  the 
beauty  of  atonement  was  for  her:  for  him,  the 
humiliation  of  being  appeased  and  recompensed, 
of  having  his  grievance  healed.  He  accepted  his 
part,  but  his  pride  was  trailed  in  the  dust;  shame 
held  him  in  a  constraining  grip.  He  could  not  go 
to  her  and  tell  her  so. 

It  was  then,  as  he  stood  faltering,  that  the  outer 
aspect  of  the  letter  in  his  hand  caught  his  attention. 
The  sheet  had  come  to  an  end  too  soon,  so  Lucy  had 
crowded  the  last  page,  and  squeezed  the  final  lines 
into  the  margin.  She  had  given  away  millions,  but 
she  had  saved  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  Dana,  seeing, 
was  caught  unawares  by  a  gust  of  silent  laughter. 
It  shook  him,  warmed  him,  lifted  him  from  his 
abasement  and  scattered  his  constraint  to  the  four 
winds  of  a  radiant  heaven;  and  it  put  him  back 
beside  his  wife. 

"Lucy!"  he  shouted. 

THE   END 


The  Country  Life  Press 

Garden  City,  N.  Y. 


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Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


A     000  128  444     7 


